The End of the Beginning, arc 2: Inferno
by SuperiorDimwit
Summary: Some matches are made in heaven, some in hell: and some, quite rare and quite peculiar, are made on earth. The tale of the blue exorcist began long before the Okumura twins were born, when two men met who would change the course of history for Assiah and Gehenna alike. The question is: how did that history change them?
1. 53: Introductions

**Hello there. So, in the end**, I decided to split TEotB into its four arcs. I know some of you thought it was a good idea, and some thought it was a stupid  
idea. As my pen name suggests, I can be pretty stupid: but if you've put up with that for +120 chapters already, I think you've learnt to live with me and  
my quirks.

**What settled things** was my own need for some sort of organisation. ^_^' I plan all this, you know. Might as well make it a little bit easier on my brain  
to do it.

**Because stats are lost** when fics are butchered like this, and for me to be able to do that to my baby, I had to make a commemoration, of sorts. (Sorry for  
being such a sappy nitwit) I'd just like to say that I saved the four-hundred-something reviews that were for arc 2. My Word crashed 12 times in the process,  
but the 185 pages (!) of thoughts you guys left for my story are safe, and reading them all through in the copying process just... Thank you. Thank you so  
much, guys. You're all the payment I need to spend a few years of my life on writing this.

Stats of TEotB at the time of splitting:  
Reviews: 600 (oh, the reviews stay? how neat!)  
Views: 67 706 (viewed every single day since it was created - you're insane, guys!)  
Favourited by: 89  
Followed by: 88

**I never have, and never will, own Blue Exorcist.**

* * *

"...why do _I _have to summarize? _You're _the one who likes playing with words."

"Yes, why indeed? Dimwit thought that would be appropriate, since this is your story; despite there being far more capable individuals in the cast."

"Why summarize at all? Do you really think anybody would be dumb enough to read this without reading the first arc first?"

"You would be surprised at the things humans have done throughout history. Your own blunders in the past arc can't even compare."

"...you're trying to taunt me into summarizing just to contradict that statement. You forget I got to know you pretty well in the previous arc."

"And if you would elaborate on that...?"

"Come on! Having the characters do the introductions is just lame! You do it if you want it so badly!"

"Haah, how mediocre the human mind, that does not recognise the world for the stage it is: you're the lead role, Shiro. The protagonist whose deeds will be  
written in the stars for generations to read with awe and inspiration. In every age and place has mankind sought ways to divine the future, not realising that  
the future changes its capricious path with every action taken; such was the case, too, when a daring young man took the first steps onto the path of a  
future known to you as the beginning, and to him as the end. It was in the early days of August, when fancy brought it to his mind that he should play a  
prank on the new students, by preparing the vents of their dorm with an odorous food called chou doufu. As fate would have it, this became-"

"Jesus Christ, this is an introduction, not another fic! Wards got sabotaged around the school and I was a little too curious for my own good, signed a  
contract for that weirdo over there, one thing led to another: I covered his ass when things heated up, and in the last chapter I woke up in his bed feeling  
like I'd been run over by the Shinkansen."

"You forgot to mention how good you are with Freudian slips and unintentional innuendos."

"I don't need to remind anybody of that."

"Indeed: and now we have a summary~"

"...ah, crap."


	2. 54: Aftermath

**A/N: I do not own or profit in any way of what Kazue Kato has created.  
**

* * *

****It wasn't easy to transit from one dimension to another. To re-enter the world where he had been born, a world that seemed to push him away like a lioness rejecting a cub that smells different.

It wasn't easy to pretend he didn't see the look of concern in Midori's eyes, didn't hear the unspoken question on her lips. He was sure he smelt different to her, too.

It wasn't easy to watch Shizuku rock Ryuuji gently back and forth in his arms when word reached them that Agari had been among the casualties. To sit amidst the heart-twisting sobs and try to force an empty word of comfort over his lips, while Agari's dying moments still were fresh in his mind's eye.

It wasn't easy to admit that he would never feel entirely human around humans again.


	3. 55: Don't know you

**A/N: I do not own or profit in any way from what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

****He hated the lies, hated how they clung to his skin like filth he couldn't wash off. He felt like tearing the truth right out of his chest and show the assembled students from his own memories what the six casualties had _really_ been like, how they _really _had died… because pretending to mourn… pretending that their deaths were tragic accidents…

Shiro attended the ceremony in the great assembly hall of the Academy and felt that soon, very soon, lightning must strike through the roof and vaporize him. Teachers gave speeches, and each word grated on his nerves like knives on porcelain. Paragon students, responsible adolescents, respected by their classmates, bright futures and promising careers – _bull, shit_. So much bullshit he was sure the microphone down at the stand must be covered in brown muck.

The susurrus hymn of weeping students floated through his consciousness like noxious mist and made him chew the butt of his cigarette to mush. Plenty of tears for paragon assassins and promising murderers – wonder how many would be dead if they weren't? How many would have survived if Mephisto hadn't raised the barriers and driven the invading demons out?

Mephisto… Samael… tch, what did names matter, anyway? He'd been the same guy all along. He had done good things… regardless what his true intentions were…

And Shiro had made his choice. A good choice or a bad one…? He didn't know. He did absolutely not know, and every time he tried to sort it out his thoughts tangled until his head ached. On one hand: for over a century, Samael had been nothing but an asset to the Order. He had saved the school, helped expand the Order's influence... on the other hand:

"_He's Satan's son._" Shiro let the thought sink into his consciousness and felt the sharp edges scratch and prod his doubts. "_Why would such a big fish join True Cross?_" There was a hidden agenda; there had to be. There was no way Satan's son could harbour any honest desire to help huma- "_Oh, listen to yourself, you sanctimonious ass!_" Shiro had very few fundamental beliefs he lived by, but those he had he held onto firmly. One such belief was that you create your own path in life. "_That you have a crap dad doesn't mean you're crap, too_", he reminded himself. Judge a tree by the fruit it bears, and so on. Samael might be Satan's son, but that didn't mean he took after his father.

At least, Shiro hoped he didn't.

* * *

Fresh air, at last! Bright sunshine greeted the sobbing crowd that milled out of the hall, caring only to warm the singing birds and coax the next round

of flowers out of their buds, now that the cherry blossomed mostly on the ground. Shiro had to take care not to look too relieved as he diverted from the throng, picking his way towards a small staircase and a bridge that-

"Hey, where ye goin'? Sayin' farewell is this way, ye know."

Circumstances softened Shizuku's tone, yet it cut through Shiro like a banshee screech. Right. Saying farewell and paying respects… He halted his steps and turned around.

"Sorry man, I just can't", he said, running a hand through his hair out of habit. "I know we were in the same class and all, but… I just can't."

There are some things you just don't do. He had no right to go there. He had no right mourn Agari, or any of the others, and he'd had it up to what he could take of pretending to do so. But Shizuku didn't know that.

"Shiro-san. I know you two didn't get along, but fe' Chrissake, she's _dead_", he said sharply. "And yer putting ye' grudges on hold te go an' pay her ye' final respects, or I'll fuckin' kick ye there, ye hear me?"

"Agari-chan wouldn't have wanted me to pay her respects", he returned, feeling a tightness grasp his chest that was cold and hot all at once.

"Midori-chan is going." Shizuku's voice was hard and unforgiving like a block of granite as it drove the final nail into the coffin. "And if _she _can let bygones be bygones, ye don't have any fuckin' right in the world te bail."

This situation shouldn't exist… Cornered in a dead end like this, caught between the secret behind his back and Shizuku's unwavering sense of right and wrong, Shiro saw no way for time to keep ticking. If anything, it should rewind and restart on another track. One that didn't lead here.

Should he attend, should he bail, should he…? What the hell should he do…?

"_I can't go there – what the hell would that make me? A murderer with a conscience? Or just a sick fuck attending his victims' funeral?_" His lips parted slightly, and he felt himself sink into that cold, detached state that had been his last farewell to Agari. "Shizu-san… I can't."

*whack*

Shizuku wasn't a seasoned fighter, and didn't know where to place a punch to deal maximum damage; but the feeling he put behind it compensated for all that.

"I don't know what the hell's wrong with you", Shizuku grated, his clenched fist trembling from pain and anger. "But _this_…? Are ye even human?"

He turned sharply and stalked away, following the stream of students headed to the courtyard where the caskets were held for farewells before being taken to the crematory.

Shiro watched him go and tasted the tang of warm blood in his mouth. He ran his tongue over his teeth to check that they were all there. At least Shizuku hadn't gone for the glasses…

"…I'm sorry", he murmured to the warm spring breeze.

* * *

He walked that whole day, and burnt almost a whole packet of cigarettes in the process. Oh, he was well aware that he was hiding: still, he couldn't

bring himself to go back to the Academy area. It's funny, how it's not the dead that haunt you, but the living: and how the shadow of the past is so much easier to bear than the shadow falling on you from the future.

He went to the night market while it was still just late afternoon. The air was high, swallows wheeled back and forth with exultant cries, and the season's warmth shone from bright eyes and colourful clothes. The vendors were busy, the smell of food tantalizing, and everything was buzzing with spring.

Bad move, he realized. All that merriment, all that optimistic laughter… it's only in the contrast with bright light you notice how dark the shadows are.

"_What's the matter?_" he questioned himself silently. The water carried animated voices over its comfortable distance to where he stood, slouching with his lower arms on the railing of the bridge across the pond. Ducks swam over to the ashes falling off his cigarette into the water – probably thought it was breadcrumbs. Stupid animals. "_Who's stupid, really? I should just go back there and say I didn't feel well at the ceremony, or some such crap._"

Oh, but it would still be there: the shadow, the unspoken pressure, as if the dead still walked the dorm corridors. It didn't matter what excuse he made up, it was still there: the mask of mourning, waiting to suffocate him.

And something else. He hadn't noticed it before, busy as he was with everything going on outside his head, but now that he had time to poke around there was something there, too. Something within: mere coals of the fire, but still glowing and hot. Still there, days after Agari and the other five had died, was that faint burning…

"_Is that what they call shock?_" he pondered, tapping ashes off in the water. His eyes lingered on the red butt of the cigarette. Yes; something like that, nested inside his chest… "_Or that post-trauma-something? Maybe I should see someone about this…_"

And say what, exactly? That he'd killed six of the school's students? Wouldn't that go down well... Still, he knew that burning feeling, and he shouldn't be feeling it now. And not this faint. That bitter, snarling anger had never been faint. And he didn't feel angry: he felt… like the clean snap of the slide clicking in place over a bullet fed into the barrel. Cocked and loaded and ready to go off if those glowing coals suddenly-

The ducks quarrelled noisily over the lost cigarette. He could hear them, but the demon had already taken his vision and was cutting him off from his ears as well; his mother's soulless, empty laughter trickled up through the darkness, and the world became his family's dinner table-

"_No you don't._" He seized his mother's memory by the throat, glared through her eyes and into the demon's. "_Not with me, and not today, you little shit._"

Yes, he felt the darkness – felt it flare like a match lit over fire, in fact. Felt it intimately, like morning mist coating skin and crawling into his lungs; felt it around and inside, part of him as he was part of it. His darkness, his to command.

His mother melted from his eyes and slipped his fingers, and he was on the bridge again. The ducks had fled the ruckus, but he could still smell them. His ears twitched as the augmented sounds of people reached them over the water with jigsaw conversations about clothes, birthdays, and the boy next door being noisy on weekends.

"_I'm… a demon…?_" He stared at his claws: a tar-black, dimly glimmering variety – looked just like the wooden handrail, which was reduced to smoking coal under his other hand. "Ngh-!" His vision was swallowed into darkness again: fierce, indignant darkness that was in no way amused by this turn of events.

He had no idea how he knew that, but it made him laugh all the same.

"_I'll amuse you alright_", he challenged with a sneer, feeling a rush of wolfish excitement that seemed… inappropriate.

Inappropriate, because he enjoyed it. The fight was even, and he was worn down to his bones, but the feeling of battling that demon soul to soul brought something to his lips that could have been called a smile if it hadn't had fangs. It was… relieving, in a way; to have a problem he could deal with hands-on, rather than the thorny dead end he'd faced with-

Shizuku?

Shiro veered very close to losing control over himself, but kept a firm grasp on his darkness and on the hip flask he'd just uncorked.

"Hi. Just gimme a minute", he told the shell-shocked pilgrim on the bridge, and put the flask to his lips. Bracing himself, he gulped liquid fire until he fell down on all fours and vomited: vomited a thick, oily cloud of miasma that disappeared into the shadows of the trees.

"_Oh man, I feel crap…_" Like riding Go To Hell backwards with a fever and a panicked horse…

"Holy Buddha, Shiro-san – ye okay?" Shizuku rushed over from the bridge and helped him to his feet.

"Fine, just fine…" He dusted himself off as best he could, but stopped. "Okay, that must sound completely ridiculous, but honestly… I think I'm fine."

"Ye think?" The look on Shizuku's face spoke clearly what he thought of that. "I just heard a possessed man say 'just gimme a minute' and exorcise 'imself like it's nothin'. How's that even possible?"

"Sen-chan told me how she controls her goblin", he replied, hanging on to the topic rather than ask why Shizuku had gone looking for him. "If you acknowledge the darkness you have in your heart, and learn to be the master of it, then you can master any demon that tries to feed off it. That's it, really."

"And did ye know one fifth o' the Futotsuki children that go through that rite o' passage end up dead?" the pilgrim said dryly, eyeing him up and down with a concerned look. "That's dangerous stuff, man. It's meant for bonding _once_, with _one _demon, an' not one that possesses _you_. Ye should wear the pendant instead."

Oh, right: that…

"I do – I just take it off to bathe, and I forgot it back in the dorm room."

Lie. The pendant lay on the pedestal of one of the lanterns in the Ceremonial Hall, where he always left it when he was sparring with Samael. He hadn't gone back there since. Hadn't gone to see Samael, either…

"…ye know, lying is a really bad habit o' yours", Shizuku said, brown eyes nailing him in place where he stood. "An' yer gonna drop it right now, 'cause we need te talk. I didn't come t'apologize. There's a saying that goes 'neva' let the sun set on an argument', an' I don't intend fe' that te happen." Shizuku shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted his weight from one foot to the other: he didn't like having to deal with this, but was determined to do so anyway. "I figure ye got yer issues. Bad ones", he added, throwing a glance at a severely singed park bench. "But if I knew what's eatin' ye, maybe we could sort this out. So what's wrong? An' don't tell me 'nothing'. That look in yer eyes earlier teday? It fuckin' scared me." Oh, if he only knew… "Carryin' that kind o' stuff inside ain't good. I'll help ya, but ye gotta take the first step an' say what's wrong."

There were moments when Shiro expected Shizuku to float up into Enlightenment and disappear from the physical world. Such a great guy: such an admirable, honest, kind guy. Now would be a perfect time for him to reach Enlightenment.

Shiro had expected Shizuku to notice something was off; he'd just hoped he wouldn't put him up against the wall about it. In retrospect, that was a plain stupid hope. Shizuku was as blunt as Shiro was when it came to addressing issues – the difference was that he did it out of genuine concern, not for code of honour or duty.

"You're a great guy, Shizu-san", he said, noticing a slight throat burn developing, "but you can't be everywhere. The one who needs support right now is Ryuuji-san, and I-"

"Don't", Shizuku bit off in steely tones, "switch subject. An' don't make me hit ye 'gain, 'cause that really fuckin' hurt, and I can't hit as hard as I want to with my left." The spark of humour fluttered awkwardly in the tense atmosphere, and went out. "Ryuuji-san's with Midori-chan and Sen-chan. I'm here fe' _you_."

Back in the dead end, then. He could make up a lie, maybe bring up his parents and twist it to fit circumstances, somehow…

"_As if he wouldn't see through that! You're overdue anyway_", a calculating part of his mind murmured. Lies are a delicate thing: like crops, they need to be planted at the right time to grow successfully. Plant them now and Shizuku's cold glare would wither them like a blizzard. "_Any lie at this point would have to be elaborate, and elaborate lies have many weak links. He's smart enough to find you out: and if he does, you'll have more to explain and less lies for doing it._"

And if you can't weave a credible lie, and you can't tell the truth… then your sole resort is the most blatant lie you can come up with.

"There's nothing wrong with me", he said flatly, bracing for the punch but not intending to block it.

Shizuku stared at him, taking a second to translate what he was being told. Shiro kept his face calm, horribly calm, though inwardly… inwardly, the coals still glowed in the darkness.

"_Just go: get pissed and walk away and never bring this up aga-_"

"Stop fuckin' lyin' ta me!" Shizuku exploded. "There's been something _extremely _damn wrong with you all along! Look at all the demons 'round ye! Like dogs smelling a bitch on heat!" His fists clenched tight, unclenched in sharp gestures, clenched again… but no strike fell. "An' I knew ye were stupid, but I didn't think in a million years ye'd be stupid enough ta go confide in a _demon_!" he snarled, his eyes gone from deep brown to pitch black with anger. "But clearly, ye were – an' don't ye dare try ta deny ye did. Mephisto Pheles took _you _ta the hearing at headquarters; 'e selected _you _from Knight class, even when ye were the crappiest student there was; 'e went down with _you _ta the target range for practice – Midori-chan tells me ye even _smell _of 'im! Nothing wrong, ye say? There's something _fuckin'_ wrong with anyone who gets that kind o' attention from a demon! Yer not leaving till ye've told me just what the hell yer carryin', ye understand?" He grabbed Shiro by the lapels of his uniform and almost yanked him off his feet. "I'm ye' friend, ye half-wit: I can tell somethin's not right! I don't care what it is as long as ye _say something, _dammit! Just drop ye' stupid pride or independence or whatever the hell yer clinging to an' _say_ something! _Anything_ is fine as long 's ye don't, fuckin', _lie_!" he growled, bearing down on Shiro like an agitated bear.

Friends. The people that have your back, come hell or high water. The people that laugh with you and cry with you. The people that are so determined to help you they unintentionally make everything worse.

Friends are the people that always try to do their best for you. And Shiro… would try to do his best for Shizuku: in a way Shizuku would never understand.

He sank deeper into that cold, detached state.

"Let go of me, Shizu-san. I'm fine."

The dark eyes flared – and died. The look of one throwing a rope to a drowning man who won't take hold of it.

"No yer not", he hissed, forcing his fingers to release the uniform.

Shiro wrapped the coldness around himself like a cloak and took his time. Smoothed out the lapels. Tugged the uniform jacket back in place. Put a smoke between his teeth. Lit it.

"_I'm sorry._"

Shizuku watched it all, and the raw anger in his eyes made the air curl tightly around him like explosive gas. Shiro turned to leave, and hated himself.

"G'nite."

"_Just walk away, coward_", he growled bitterly at himself. "_And let's see if you can ever look yourself in the mirror again._"

"Keep telling ye'self yer fine, ye liar!" Shizuku's snarl echoed through the still evening, through the trees; through the cold detachment. "That's the kind a' pent-up stuff that makes demons fancy ya – ye might wanna deal with that!"

* * *

He did deal with it: at the target practice range. That evening, he beat Natsuya's high score on unlimited mode.


	4. 56: Don't know me

**A/N: I do not own or profit in any way from what Kazue Kato has created.  
**

* * *

****"'Cover the underground floors'", Shiro muttered, his booted feet pounding the floor. "There's nothing _in _the blasted underground floors, jerkface…" Akihiro had sent him down there for that very reason, he was sure of it. Yaonaru Akihiro, whom sadistic gods had chosen to lead this mission.

Pff, gods. That would be Samael. Wasn't that his name, after all?

"_Send the Dragoon to the empty wards._" Shiro threw open another door to another examination room, already knowing it would be empty. "_And the Doctor into the fray._" Yep, empty. As all the others had been. "_Just 'cause he's your dear little brother. Asshat._"

The hospital was temporarily closed for issues with mold: mold with very long fingers and very sharp fish-teeth, and an unfortunate penchant for sabotaging everything mechanical.

Gremlins were easy targets. They settled, made a mess, were discovered, and were eliminated. Typical demons, as far as anyone was concerned. Anyone could deal with typical demons.

It was when demons started acting outside that pattern that you might want to start worrying.

Etymology was a small course included in exorcism history. It was a messy business, and it had no application whatsoever unless you met a Lord of Gehenna (in which case you would be more interested in running than in discussing the details of his name), and for those reasons only the essentials of demon etymology were taught. If you wanted the etymology of Samael, you had to go way back. Shiro had come across it during his digging, and remembered it only because it had confused him as much as it had confused the authors of those old books. Confusion was probably the reason it had been omitted in later editions: how do you explain that a demon bears the name of God?

Let alone one who is Satan's son.

And who sides with humans.

Not your typical demon.

Shiro snapped out of his thoughts and back to the mission. He had reached his third staircase, which meant he had covered one third of the basement level. The most advanced equipment down here were machines that rotated blood samples: the gremlins would be more interested in the fancier stuff, like the tomographs on floor five.

He slowed his pace, and his body settled into firing stance on autopilot: back straight, legs apart, gun aimed at the ground between his feet. Why was he stopping…? There were still two thirds left of useless recon before he could go up that staircase and do some good…

Samael was successful because he didn't act like your typical demon.

Shiro glanced again at the staircase, a small smile forming on his lips. Maybe he shouldn't act like your typical exorcist, then.

* * *

_This _was more like it.

Shiro was still catching his breath after jogging up the fourteen flights of stairs when he put a silver-coated blessed bullet in the first gremlin – an ugly little thing with spider leg-fingers and a crinkly hide that looked like dried mud. He peered around every corner, not wanting to be taken by surprise but also not wanting to take some other exorcist by surprise: mix humans with adrenaline and firearms and things can go very bad.

It would be wrong to say that going on a mission was relaxing… well, then Shiro was wrong through and through, because he _did _relax. Mentally. The labyrinthine corridors of the hospital drew his attention from Shizuku, Samael and dead classmates, and the low hum of electricity and the distant report of gunfire tuned his ears to the world outside his head. Made sense, in a way: escape your inner demons by hunting the ones outside.

Then again, you can encounter things worse than demons.

He suppressed a groan when he spotted Kita around the next corner. The dick looked okay – a bit warm and out of breath, but other than that…

Other than… that little girl in hospital-clothing that he held by the hand…

"Oi, Kita-san." Shiro thought it best to announce he was there before he stepped clear of the corner. "Let go of that girl."

The girl in question jumped with fright and hid behind Kita's legs. She couldn't be more than five, and yet…

"You? Shouldn't you be downstairs?" Kita looked as happy as Shiro about this encounter.

"Figured I'd do more good here, and I was right. That girl's not human", he retorted. The muzzle of his gun already pointed at the creature, whatever it was.

"Lower that gun. She's not a demon – I doused her in holy water."

"Then what is she?" Shiro didn't lower his gun. "Why's she here? The hospital is vacated."

The girl began crying, like any human girl would've done in this situation. Maybe he was wrong…? She _looked _human, and he couldn't imagine how a girl five years old could have become wicked enough for a demon to possess her, but that persistent feeling in his gut…

"Would you stop pointing a gun at a little girl, you imbecile? She said she was left behin- *cough cough*" Too out of breath to be arrogant? How fast could he have been running with that little critter in tow…?

That little critter, who wasn't even panting…

"She's not a demon: she's dead." Shiro strode closer, warily, steadily aiming the gun at the little trembling shape cowering behind Kita. "And so are you, if you don't let her go. You've got boils coming up on your neck", he informed, throwing a glance at Kita's sweat-coated face. "It's an acheri, a disease ghost."

Finally, Kita let go of the kid – but she didn't let go of him. She clung to his leg with the high-pitched shrieks of a child frightened beyond sense. Not afraid of an exorcist: afraid to die…

"_She doesn't know she's dead_", Shiro realized. "She thinks she's alive…"

"Then make her think *cough* otherwise!" Kita wheezed. "You can't fight ghosts with guns!" His attempts to peel the panicked girl from his leg caused the agitated skin on his fingers to crack and leak a sticky, translucent substance. He slid down on the floor with his back against the wall and tried to kick the ghost off his leg, to no avail. She might look frail, but she was strong. "She has to let *cough cough* let go of this life!"

"Right. Hey, kid! Kiddo!" Shiro sat down on his haunches, close enough to talk to the child and far enough that he could jump back if she tried to touch him. "What's your name? Listen to me! What's your name?"

No chance in hell she'd listen: she turned her scrunched-up face away from him and screamed louder.

"You talk to her, I just scare her!"

"Hey… sweetie…?" Kita placed a sickly, boil-infested hand on her hair. "It's okay, girl. What's your name?"

He would rather bite a bullet than admit it aloud, but Shiro had to admire Kita's composure: he doubted he would've been able to sound so calm if he were dying. The girl hiccupped something that sounded like Miho between sobs and sharp, mewling cries.

"Good. Miho-chan… you weren't left behind here." Kita wet his parched lips. "You died. You're not alive. You're a ghost, and you're hurting people. *cough* Right now, you're *cough* hurting me…" And with no sign of stopping it, either: Miho wailed louder, and her stubby little fingers tightened their grip on his trousers. "You're dead. Please, move on…!"

This wasn't going anywhere…! Shiro racked his brain, tried to think of anything at all, any way to make a ghost realize it was-

"Miho-chan. Miho-chan!"

She glanced at him. The panic in her eyes was horribly real. Her tears were real. She was real. She was alone, afraid, alive – in her own mind, she was alive, and the mind is a powerful thing. A human can't create illusions to fool others, like kitsune and tanuki, but she can create illusions to fool herself. Anything the mind creates in the world it's built for itself is real: and in this frightened little girl's world, she was alive.

"You think you're alive, don't you?" Shiro detached from himself, aimed carefully to avoid hitting Kita in the leg, and did what had to be done. "That means you think you can die."

*bang*

The little body went limp, went through Kita's leg, dissolved like mist that-

Shiro felt it. Like a breath of cold air against his face, like the thin string of fear plucked in the dark of the night, he felt the demon touch him as it left the dying vapours of Miho.

"Are you out of your mind?" Kita coughed as he fumbled to get the syringe through the rubber stopper of the vial from his belt, and turn it upside down to draw out its contents. "That's not how you put a spirit to rest!"

"Give yourself that antidote and can it", Shiro snapped. He didn't know if the cold tightening he felt in his chest was from the demon, or from the look in Miho's eyes when he'd fired; but he did know that if Kita was thinking of lecturing him right now, he would shut him up with force. "It might not be the proper way to do it, but at least you're alive."

"One should treat the dead with *cough* respect", he said and stabbed the syringe into his arm through the uniform. "That spirit won't find rest with your _barbaric _manner of sending her on. Then again, I suppose I knew how you treat the dead already."

Kita wasn't Shizuku. Shizuku smacked him right in the face with his opinion: Kita hid his in a tiny, acidic barb aimed at just the right spot.

"I didn't feel well at the ceremony."

Kita's smile as he swallowed three capsules of herbal extract was no smile: a smile implies happiness, and this was mere scorn.

"That I can understand, after that pilgrim knocked out a tooth or two. It would seem your manners are distastefully crude even to one who comes by through begging and sleeping in the ditch."

"I just saved your life, you little shit", Shiro growled, feeling the coals in his chest burning through the cold. "Is gratitude too crude for people other than beggars and barbarians to know of?"

Apparently, since Kita didn't deliver any snide comeback. Or a "thanks", for that matter. What a dick… and what a perfect time to get some answers out of him.

Shiro was distracted by another gremlin, but not very long. Was it right, to squeeze an injured guy for information...?

"The only things you're good at are shooting and cursing", Kita remarked from the floor. "You don't *cough* know what you did, do you? She thought she was alive: in her mind, what you did was murder. A vengeful spirit will-"

"If you'd rather wanted me to let her kill you, it isn't too late to amend that."

Telling an empty threat from a serious one is difficult for most, because few have ever been faced with a serious threat: but when you are, there is no mistaking it. There is a calmness about the voice that contrasts jarringly with the words it speaks, in a way that sets your very bones tingling.

Kita's bones tingled: still, his mind couldn't accept what his tense, weakened body told him.

"What are you implying?"

Shiro had to read the whisper on his lips as a sudden burst of gunfire echoed through the corridors.

"Just saying I'd rather avoid an accident", he said, raising his arm ever so slightly to aim the muzzle at Kita's legs on the floor. "Ricocheting bullets and such, can happen to the best of us – happened when your brother was on a mission with Todo Eiji, right?"

The look on Kita's face made him smile darkly on the inside. So high and mighty in the classroom, but in a field situation you could always trust his nerves.

"So, about that talk you and your brother wanted to have with me: would now be a good time?"

"…you're out of your mind", the lanky guy said in a low voice, staring at him as one would stare at a madman. "You're not fit for fieldwork. You're demented."

"A bit on the cold side, maybe", he stated, letting a bit of that dark smile slip onto his lips, "but I like to think of myself as practical: it's a lot more practical to chat this way than with your brother acting coat rack. What were you two discussing that evening?"

"Family business", was the tense reply.

"Indeed? How about we pretend I'm family, then?" He let the smile grow wider; grow meaner. "My grades say I could be. Truth is I'm better than you, at everything. Akihiro-senpai knows it, too. He sent me down the basement to give you a fighting chance, didn't he? And even then, I have to come and save your ass." Oh, how he had _longed _for an opportunity to say that to the little brat! "_I'm such an asshole._" Keen observation. Saying he was sorry for it would've been a lie, though. "You could say you owe me: so what's that family business again…?"

Kita held it together well, but there was that tiny sharpening of his jaw line that betrayed clenched teeth, and that almost unnoticeable look of grappling in his eyes: grappling for threads that were coming undone. How small he was, sagging against the wall like that…

Shiro registered the sound of tiny, hard feet clattering against linoleum floor before Kita could shout the warning. He aimed the gun backwards at the sound and fired: the steady rhythm ended in an abrupt thud that skidded to a halt.

"Sorry, didn't catch that. You were saying…?"

"We were talking about the artefact", Kita said in low tones, wary eyes burning into him. "And how to best keep it safe."

"Hand it over to True Cross Order, then." They had brought that up at the hearing last Christmas: Deep Keep was the safest bunker in the country. "_But-_" But Yaonaru had turned down the offer every time… "Or is _that_ what you're keeping it safe from…?" Yes, the quick flicker in Kita's eyes told him. Yes: there was something going on there that he didn't feel like sharing. "What is that artefact, and why don't you want the Order to have it?"

Kita's lips twitched as humour temporarily overrode nervousness. His gaze didn't flicker this time, no: it filled with contempt.

"The Order", he snorted.

Shiro flinched when the walkie-talkie in his belt conveyed a crackling voice:

"This is Yaonaru Akihiro. We have located the gremlin nest. All exorcists assemble in room 698-B in the cardiology ward, sixth floor. Do you copy?"

"Yaonaru Kita, copy", Kita spoke into his transmitter. "Incapacitated, without serious injury thanks to Fujimoto Shiro, who will be joining you in 698-B shortly." He didn't click it off, only gave Shiro a cold look and jerked his head in the direction of the staircase.

Shiro didn't bother with long looks and meaning glares: he jogged off to the stairs. The opportunity to make Kita talk was past, but it hadn't been entirely wasted.


	5. 57: Not again

**A/N: I do not own or profit in any way from what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

****It had been easy to exterminate the gremlins once the nest was found. He didn't even get a reprimand for neglecting his assigned duty; maybe Kita did feel that he owed him something for saving him, despite the questioning…

The van dropped the exorcists off at the Academy, and Shiro set a brisk pace for the dorms in the light rain. Saburota was only in early in the morning and late at night, at which point Shiro made sure to be either asleep or out of their shared room. He didn't know what the senpai made of his stunt the day of the attack, and he'd rather not discuss the matter. He did, however, need to write a report on the mission.

It was the first time their class had been split up with different senpais to work on separate missions: Shiro with Kita, Shizuku with Sen, Ryuuji with-

*thud*

"You get zero points in survival test~" Midori sang, wiggling her toes into his back. "How did mission walk, Shiro-kun?"

"Go", came his muffled voice from the damp ground. He _had _heard something up on the arcade beams, but he'd thought it was a pigeon. "You get zero points in grammar. It went well – I had to save Kita-san from a ghost, but other than that it was okay." Feeling the weight bounce off his back, he got to his feet and dusted himself off. Midori's uniform looked like it had taken a heavy beating, but herself she shone like the sun. "And how did yours go?"

Midori brought up her lean arm and patted her bicep with a smug expression.

"Like water in mountain stream: many rocks ahead, but none could stop us~" Then, her ears sagged a little. "Ryuuji-kun should not come. His body is there, his mind not. Is good to let the dead live in you, yes", she said, patting her chest to indicate what she meant. "Not good to let death live your life. He needs to set straight." She cocked her head with a mournful look that was horrible on her features. "And you too."

No, not again…

"Yeah, I may have been a little off the last days", he said, checking the impulse to run a hand through his hair. He didn't have much hope of fooling Midori – she was more demon than human in her way of _knowing _you – but nervous ticks wouldn't help any. "I mean, with Agari-chan's death and all… I'm not good at dealing with such things. Sorry if I've been acting out of-"

No, he wasn't fooling her one bit. Midori sneaked up to him, staring transfixed at him as she did; one step at a time or in series of little skips, like a cat chasing an elusive speck of light.

"What did you do, Shiro-kun…? Your eyes… you had demon's eyes before, and now a heart to match… what did you do?" She touched his face gingerly, as if she were afraid he would shatter. "When you came, day after the attack, you had his smell on you. Thick, all over you. Smell of darkness, smell of sweet candy and strong tea. Shiro-kun, what did you do?"

…what do you say to that? How do you answer the plea in those golden eyes, where tears of desperation are dammed with the hope of your unspoken words? What do you say, when those unspoken words are lies?

Nothing. You say nothing. You stand there, gagged with unseen cloth, and watch the dams break when no false promises come to their support.

"Stupid Shiro-kun! Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Midori shrieked, voice cracking; and cracking something inside him. "Why don't you listen?! Why don't you open your eyes?!" She beat her fists against his chest, as if hammering on a door that wouldn't open. "He makes darkness grow in you! He makes heart hard and dead in you!"

"I'm sorry." He wrapped his arms around her and halted the barrage of blows: not so much for the physical pain it caused… "I'm sorry, Midori-chan. I'm sorry and I'm stupid." Just, please, don't let her end like Shizuku… "_I wish I could tell you, I really do…_" How he would've loved to hold her like this, under different circumstances…

"Why…?" she rasped into his shoulder, arms locked between her body and his. "Fox doesn't go to wasp nest when stung. Dog doesn't go to snake when bit. Moth flies to fire, but only once", she said quietly. "Are you a moth, Shiro-kun? If I say fire burns, will you still fly into it? Or will you be fox, and listen when I say wasp stings?"

"I don't know", he murmured. Excellent reply. Would solve everything. "I think I'm just an idiot, unfortunately."

"I set you straight, Shiro-kun", she sobbed into his shirt. "I set you straight! Why you go back to crooked?"

Yeah, why…? One hand tentatively moved to rest on her head. He didn't know anything about comforting people, but he honestly wanted – _needed_, dammit! – to do right by her, somehow, by any means…

"…it's who I am", he mumbled. Mere inches from his eyes, he watched her furry, black-tipped ears twitch, and bit back a wave of guilt. Dammit, she was such a lovely girl, so kind, so honest, so soft… and he was a genuine asshole. "I'm not a good person, Midori-chan. Really, I'm… not a guy you should go worrying for. Please, don't worry about me."

"You say stupid things. His smile-"

"Is a dagger, ready to stab me in the back – I know." He glanced up at the arced stone beams, and the pale grey sky they supported. "_And yet I keep thinking it's the only smile I'll see until this settles… if it does settle…_" Shiro drew a breath, and the scent of flowers and fighting reached him from Midori's hair. "You're worried I will get hurt, and I really don't deserve your concern… I appreciate it, but…" Oh come on, he could do better than that! Why make it sound like he was about to die, or embark on a journey with no return? Seriously… "Will you trust me if I say I flew into the fire, and it didn't burn me?"

Midori untangled herself gingerly to look at him. It's very rare that people actually _look _at you. That they search for the soul in your eyes and read the fine print of your life in the scars and creases: that they endeavour to see the person behind the face. It's a frightful thing, to be scrutinized like that. It's also a rare privilege, one Shiro didn't quite feel he deserved.

"You didn't burn…" Her gaze wandered from feature to feature, trying to find the reason for the hesitation in her voice. "…but you didn't come through unscathed. Maybe you don't notice… because you don't see…" She removed his glasses and leaned into his face, making sure he could see her eyes without them. Big, worried eyes with gold still melting shimmering droplets into the lower lashes. "Every time you go through fire, you burn. Little by little, Shiro-kun. Is the most dangerous kind of damage: turns mountain to sand, bone to dust, river to ravine. Without anybody notice." She put his glasses back, gently, and Shiro was awkwardly reminded of how people lay flowers on coffins. "Little by little, he will burn you to ashes."

She was probably right – hell, she always was – but the moth flies to the flame still. Shiro was a moth, more so than he was a fox or dog; always drawn to the flickering temptation of danger, of the half-crazy stunts and thrilling fun it promised. And Samael… _Mephisto_… was a flame he knew he wouldn't be able to resist.

"Look, Midori-chan… You're a lovely girl, and a wonderful friend, and I hope you'll still… still be my friend, even if I'm an idiot. Just… whatever happens, don't worry about me. My choices, my consequences: it has nothing to do with you, and there's no need for you to-ouch!"

Midori looked very cute when she impersonated an angry puffer fish, but that flick on his nose reminded him that with demons, appearance counted for nothing.

"Shiro-kun is still stupid. And I still worry." He expression relaxed and became something that hurt infinitely more than the flick. "But if Shiro-kun wants to pretend is fine, I will pretend it is."

Shiro had no idea what he replied after that. He couldn't remember if he had thanked her, or snarled at her, or… or simply left. What he did know was that something had broken inside him.

* * *

He had no idea where he went. He walked in circles, walked anywhere: anywhere that would lead away from himself, and the path he'd sworn he would never tread rushed by under his feet. Circles, infinite circles. That you have a crap dad doesn't mean you're crap, too…? Then why was Midori putting on a mask with painted smile, like his mother had done for this father?

Water. Water between his fingers. Every drop and every purpose he tried to hold onto slipped his grasp, poured out of his hands and into a vortex under his feet. That was the only word for it: vortex. A steady maelstrom of misfortunes sucking him towards the bottom of the ocean: no matter what direction he turned, he kept going downward.

"_How the hell did this happen…?_"

Humankind is the only creature capable of producing a venom that transmits without being injected or inhaled, without touch or thought or intention. Like acid, secrets gauge chasms and fill them with silence – while just as silently eating away at the minds they separate.

"_Stupid fucking way of losing friends…!_" And whose fault was that? Who chose the secrets? Who chose to kill humans for the sake of a demon…? "_A monkey that everyone around will be deaf and blind to: speaks evil it shouldn't speak, and can't speak the evil it should._" Shiro hissed the cigarette smoke out between his teeth, covering city streets he didn't see anyway."_Why are you always right, Midori…?_"

Samael and his schemes…

Yaonaru and their schemes…

…and his own blasted talent for screwing up with people…

…and six bodies in burial urns.

Shiro paced the streets of True Cross Town in a haze of smoke. Sometimes his footfalls drowned out the echo of the questions and the tense voices, and sometimes they drifted through. Sometimes he managed to leave the worried glances behind, and sometimes they caught up with him.

Sometimes he saw Susumu's calm eyes before the trigger was pulled…

...…and the vortex dragged him deeper down.

* * *

He had no idea where he was. Not where he was in True Cross Town, or where _he _was. He could always get back to the Academy by sticking his cram school key in any door; but to get his friends back… to get back from wherever he was going…

"_If they would all just stop worrying about my well-being, everything would be fine…_"

A smile that wasn't a smile tugged Shiro's lips. Yeah, if they could stop caring about him he would be fine: wasn't that just a lovely thing to think of the few people who tried to be his friends? Not that it would be fine anyway. Even if they stopped asking questions, he would be stuck with the answers.

"_They're right to worry about me_", he thought. "_Even if I didn't have the contract to think about, I could never tell them what I did. I'm seriously fucked up…_" And darkness rose up from the vortex to swallow him. "_Not again…_"

If you have reached the point where your first reaction to possession is "not again", you know you have a problem.

"_**You're too kind on yourself, Fujimoto Shiro. Murdering children merits a bit more than 'fucked up'.**_"

"_Shut up and get out of my body_", he snarled at it, trying to rein in darkness that was, like every other aspect of his life, slipping through his fingers.

"_**And you are afraid you might do it again.**_"

…slipping… through his fingers…

"_**It was easier than you thought, was it not? Didn't think you had it in you, but once faced with the decision you didn't hesitate. Not once, not twice: six times, and you didn't hesitate~**_"

"_I had to! I…!_"

Could have backed down.

Could have let them explain.

Could have let them go on, once he learnt who Mephisto really was.

"_I…_"

Had made a choice. A good choice, or a bad one…?

"_**Free will is a waste if you don't make use of it, no~? You have made good use of yours, boy. So much suffering caused by you – makes one wonder: are ye even human?**_" it said, borrowing Shizuku's voice from his memories. "_**Are you even human**_", it whispered in seductive tones, "_**when you fall to demons so easily…?**_"

"_'course I'm human!_" he snarled, clinging to the sensation of a wall against his left shoulder. "_And way better than you!_"

"_**Are you? You chose demons over humans, did you not~?**_" it spoke, washing over him with another wave of truth dredged from the depths of his darkness. "_**Of all the girls at school, the half-demons were the ones that captured your interest; when questions were raised, you defended your demon principal – **_**killed **_**for your demon principal. Say those words again, little murderer~ Say you're human, if you truly believe you are.**_"

"_I…_"

Six lives for one.

Six humans for a demon.

"_I..._"

Did it in cold blood, perfectly aware of what he was doing, shedding lives like withered flower petals.

You don't need to be born a demon to be like one.

"_I..._" He couldn't; no matter how he tried to force the words out, he couldn't... "_I saved my friend_", he ground out.

The demon roared with laughter in his head, and Shiro regretted his thoughts. He heard how naïve it sounded. How far-fetched, laughable, impossible; for a demon to have a human friend…

…he slipped…

"_**Your friend, you say? And are you **_**his **_**friend…? Or merely a pastime puppet to serve his purposes?**_" The wall disappeared from his shoulder, unconsciousness caved in on him- "_**No demon would ever consider a human his equal.**_"

"_Bloody arrogant twat..._" Like a certain someone he knew... and knew _well_...

Shiro closed his ears, closed his heart to the gnawing doubts, and felt for the fragmented outlines of his self. Drowning, yes: drowning in his own darkness, but definitely human. A poor fucking excuse for a human, but a human still.

A human with a good understanding of demons.

"_Damn right I chose demons over humans_", he said, feeling his own will creep into the darkness, like the roots of an invasive weed. "_It ain't fun if it's no challenge._" He rose above the sticky unconsciousness, bit by bit crawling out of the black bog inside. "_And to a hell-raiser like me_", he smiled as vision slowly returned to his eyes, "_there's no challenge more fun than raising hell for arrogant bastards like you and that finicky prince._"

* * *

No demon ever considers a human his equal. Demons have the power of magic and regeneration, strength and stamina; humans have imagination. That is the one quality they have to enable them to fight demons on equal terms, countering claws with swords, magic with chants, minions with familiars, regeneration with medicine. That is what exorcists teach their students; that, and to never listen to a demon's words. A demon's words are the only weapon humans can never counter, because it turns their imagination against them. For that very reason, demons never expect a human to try. They never expect a human to challenge them on their own ground. They never expect a human to act as if he were truly their equal.

Shiro didn't care for titles, humans, or demons: he challenged anyone who sat on horses too high for his taste. He made poor choices at times, of course he did: that, if anything, was the essence of human nature. Humans try and fail, do bad and good... and in that, he was perfectly human.

The fight raged evenly after that. It was a rot demon, and judging from the effort he had to put into keeping awareness of his body, a mid-level one. He would never forget the verses for those.

When he had stayed awake long enough to chant the fatal verses to completion, he was exhausted. The demon was gone, and his arms, hands and knees scraped bloody from when his body had flung itself this-way-and-that at the half-conscious will of its respective owners.

"_Finally…_" The dark shadows of his doubts drew back, settling around the burning coals in his chest like chilled travellers around a fire: invisible to the human eye, but a welcoming beacon for any demon around. "Right…" He picked some gravel out of a particularly unpleasant wound on his elbow. "Time to pay that old goat a visit…"


	6. 58: My game, my rules

**A/N: Special thanks go to ChaosVincent for helping out with this! ^_^ And to TwistedDiscord, for giving Samael a nickname that irrevocably stuck the idea in my head. And to YFanGirl1613, for recommending this fic on tv-tropes and making me feel like I've been granted a place on Mount Olympus.**

**I do not own or profit in any way from what Kazue Kato has created. **

* * *

Shiro tried to get his thoughts in order as he walked up to the office, but it's hard to be prepared when you have no idea what to expect. Would it be Mephisto sitting in that high-backed chair, or would it be Prince Samael? As embarrassing as it was, Shiro felt his feet slow as he approached the white double doors. He had hesitated before those doors once before, when he hadn't known what he would find behind them. All over again, he didn't know. So much had changed, and yet he hoped… if only one thing could stay the same in this mess… if only just one thing, he hoped it would be Mephisto.

Shiro drew a breath, smacked himself mentally, and turned the han-

"G-huah…!"

It hit him in the gut with enough force to knock him flat on his back in the corridor: the panda itself pivoted a landing on the floor, looking extremely pleased with itself. Shiro stared at it, unable to find words or air.

"Did you see the _height _of that jump?" an enthusiastic voice drifted out from the office. "It was the best so far!"

"No: did you see where my kidney landed?" he snarled, crawling up on his feet with wheezing breath and intestines in disarray. "_Stupid, ridiculous…!_"

"Tsk tsk, and you study for Doctor?" the lilting voice chided. "The kidneys are-"

"In the back: I know. And I swear your stupid wastebasket dented my spine." He staggered into the office doubled-over. The panda bounced ahead of him, chirping and squeaking at its master behind the desk. It was rewarded with a crumpled caramel wrapping from a near-empty bowl. "Oh, great: you're teaching it to attack people."

"I'm making use of its unknown potential. Good afternoon, Shiro~ Show him again, will you?"

The wastebasket bounded off to the edge of the carpet and charged like a triple jumper. It leapt into a swan dive, tilting its body horizontal in the air. It would land on its head… but just before it made contact with the floor, the lid flipped open and catapulted the familiar into a second arch, aimed straight for-

Shiro caught it before it could rupture his spleen. The little creature squeaked proudly in his hands.

"I'm thinking of teaching it twists next", Mephisto announced with a face of pure, childish joy. Yep, that was Mephisto. Beyond all doubt, Mephisto.

"You're the same as ever." A smile – a _real _smile – ghosted his lips. It felt… strange? unaccustomed? …good? Regardless, he made sure to catch hold of it before it slipped. "So what should I call you these days? Your real name wouldn't go down well." He put the panda down on its side, disabling more attacks, and grabbed a chair. "But if I shorten it, it might." Shiro deposited the chair in front of the desk, and his sore body in it: the smile held. "I think you look like a Sammy."

Mephisto's eyelids sank like slow guillotine blades.

"Use that repulsive moniker ever again and I will have your exorcist ID read 'Shiro-pon' when you graduate."

"Right: Mephisto it is."

Normal. People might have different attitudes towards normal; contempt, idealisation, fear, longing… It all depends on what is normal to the individual, but most individuals react the same to _their_ normal-of-choice: they relax. They feel at ease, feel comfortable, feel… good. As the word-fencing and the displeased squeals of the panda drowned out the past days' arguments, Shiro relaxed into the feeling of this very peculiar situation that was _his _normal.

"Trivial matters out of the way, what brings you to my office?"

"I was wondering if you've still got my pendant somewhere, after last time? I need it back."

The demon's smile curled like the tail of a cat that has spotted prey.

"Is that really the question you should be asking~?"

Oh yes, everything was normal: and Mephisto was playing games where Shiro could only fumble his way ahead blindly. He looked at the demon, trying to read… Was there something he had missed? Something he should have thought of? Something…

"…you could have sent your bat with it, as you did before", he said, testing the proverbial ice with careful steps. "But you didn't." His brow furrowed as Mephisto's smile grew more… satisfied? "You wanted me to come for it. Why?"

"_That's _the question: bravo~ And you are about to provide the answer to it. Eins, zwei, drei!"

"…the Ceremonial Hall?" Shiro glanced around the familiar training ground. Of all places...

"And it shall house a most unusual ceremony indeed." Mephisto removed his top hat and pulled a sheathed katana out of it. "I want you to fight to kill", he said, tossing the weapon to Shiro. "Summon every ounce of strength and dexterity in you and try to cut me down."

He was still Mephisto, alright. Doing weird crap without any explanation. Shiro had to admit, he couldn't even guess what this was about. What did sparring have to do with his pendant? Or was it just his next weird game…?

"Interesting~" Mephisto poofed both swords away after a while of intense sparring that didn't amount to anything.

"What is?" Shiro asked, wiping the back of his hand across his dripping forehead. Hadn't they sparred a hundred times before…?

"Patience, Shiro~" he smiled, a strange spark flickering in his eyes. "Eins, zwei, drei!"

This time, they were…

"Are we… in Tokyo?"

"Tokyo it is, but we aren't here." Mephisto took in the surroundings with the airs of a proud gardener. "Only our minds are. So, tell me: what do you see?"

Besides the milling people and the multi-story houses and the neon advertisem-?

"What the…?"

You would always see coal tars in cities, and the occasional goblin making passers-by trip or snatching newspapers out of peoples' hands. But this…

"There are… demons. Everywhere." He stared with big eyes at the multitude of shapeless shadows hovering among the humans. They buzzed like millions of wasps wrapped in cotton, in the streets and in shop windows and phasing through walls. "But they aren't doing anything. They just…"

"Wait", Mephisto said in soft tones. "Wait for a chance to slip into an unsuspecting host: these are spirits that have not yet fully transitioned from Gehenna to Assiah. What can you tell me about them?"

"What? I don't… or… I _think_ that, that one", he pointed to a churning cloud of black in the middle of a road crossing, "is a fire type. And that one…" His brow furrowed, though he wasn't sure what he was looking for, or listening for, or what senses you had access to when you were just a disembodied presence. "A rot demon…?"

"Interesting indeed~ Tell me, Shiro: have you noticed anything different since the events in Deep Keep?"

"Besides screwing up everything with people around me? No, not really", he said dryly.

"Hasty hasty: think again", he sang: and dissolved when a hurried man in suit walked through him. "Think in terms of demons."

Mephisto was still there when the man had passed, still with that odd spark in his eyes: and Shiro remembered where he had seen it. That was the gleam from the first day they had met, when he had boldly laid down his demands for their contract. And if he were to chance a guess at what that meant, he would say it was literally the spark of interest.

"They've been after me a lot", Shiro replied in level tones: he knew the demon well enough to know that when he found something about you interesting, you'd better be on guard. "That's why I came to get my charm back."

"How would you describe Futotsuki Sen, your classmate?" Mephisto asked, strolling leisurely through the busy people as if he were smoke.

"What…?" When you don't understand a thing, just play along. Shiro followed, reflexively stepping out of the way for people who could neither see nor touch him. "Um, distant…?" He recalled the serene look on her face that time during their Esquire exams, when Midori and Sen's goblin had feasted on raw deer-meat. "Creepy. As hell. And…" And during the same exam, she had wanted to abandon Agari and Kita to die. "Callous. I don't know, she…"

"Isn't like other girls?" Mephisto filled in over his shoulder.

"Yeah. And where are you going with all these questions?"

"To a phenomenon known as 'imprint'."

Imprint? Wasn't that what animal newborns did…?

"Never heard of it."

"Not surprising." They strolled down the lively Chuo Dori; ghosts, side by side with the living. "What the Vatican fears, it tends to bury deep. Imprint was first observed in the Futotsuki clan, since they are one of few demon-worshipping societies to survive to modern day. As you know, they bond with demons by letting them tap into the darkness in their hearts: however~" He reached out and flicked away a coal tar that was tickling a woman's nose and making her sneeze. "A bond of that kind works both ways: demon taps into human, human taps into demon, and lines blur. After years of bonding, neither is entirely human or entirely demonic. Futotsuki Sen isn't like other girls, because her heart has housed that goblin familiar for most of her short lifetime. That", he said, turning to face Shiro with a smile like a silken garrotte string, "is imprint. You", he poked a gloved finger in his chest, "show the first signs of it."

Somewhere, in a body hundreds of miles away, Shiro felt the words hit his gut with the force of ten wastebasket pandas.

"What…? I… when your heart was…?"

"With normal bonding, it takes years for a human to imprint to the point it would be noticeable: you seem to have done it in seconds. Granted, containing a demon's heart at full power is a tad more intense than mere bonding", Mephisto snickered, stroking his beard with the expression of a stock shark eyeing promising figures. "I'm not sure it has ever been done before."

"And what, exactly… would an imprint entail?" he asked, covering rather successfully how utterly thrown off balance he was. "_Not that there's anything wrong with Sen… oh screw that: there's a _lot _wrong with Sen._"

"Don't ask me~ That depends entirely on the human. What grows in the human heart is planted by humans, and the only thing demons do is make the seeds thrive: an imprint merely augments the darkness already in you, a proverbial push in the direction you are already headed."

No. No, no, no, _no_…!

"_I killed-_" Not to mention stealing, fighting, using people, lying – all of it, all the wrongs he'd ever done crawled up his throat and clogged it to the point he could barely breathe. "How do you reverse it?" he croaked with a feeling that his far-off body was going to be sick any moment. "_Probably comes with one hell of a price tag, but that won't matter…_"

It's one thing to be targeted by demons: that he could live with. But to live with himself being-

"There is no such thing as reversing an imprint."

What…?

"Say that again…?" he whispered, barely able to hear his own voice for the buzzing in his ears. The ocean of life around them kept moving as if nothing had happened. Just kept moving... as if the world hadn't ended there and then...

"There is no such thing as reversing an imprint", the demon repeated with the ease of the truly heartless. "Even after a bond is severed, the imprint remains."

"Are you fucking shitting me? There has to be _some _way of reversing it, or halting it, or- or why the hell would you tell me if there wasn't _anything _to do about it?!" he shouted, partway between rage and panic.

"Now now, calm down~"

"Don't you tell me to fucking calm down! _You_ put this imprint on me, and you will find some way of removing it! I don't care if you think it's interesting or _fun_: you're gonna turn me back to normal or I-"

"Hush, little lion~" Mephisto purred softly, so close the gloved finger on Shiro's lips was the only thing separating them from Mephisto's. Shiro did close his mouth, just in case that finger was suddenly removed… "Take a look around: you have quite the audience~"

The humans milled about, unaware of the phantom visitors. But they did have an audience. Without Shiro noticing, the shadowy forms of the demons had closed in on them; watching them without eyes, circling them like vultures waiting for the prey to draw its final breath.

"You are here in mind only, with no body for them to possess", Mephisto murmured next to his face. "But they sense the darkness in you, as you sense the darkness in them. Kukukuku, indeed, you have imprinted fast."

Shiro's lungs emptied in a single breath, as of a giant fist getting him in the gut. He wasn't a good person, he was fully aware of that. But to have it thrown in his face like this, with these things watching him from another dimension, eating him with unseen eyes…

"I told you, because this is your future." Mephisto made a sweeping gesture, as if the shapeless, buzzing entities waiting to tear into him were a grand view from the top of the world. "They will be your companions; your silent watchers, your ever-present suitors, waiting to make your body theirs."

"Tell me you're joking…" he breathed.

"Sadly, no", said a voice that didn't know the concept of sadness. "Good to see you have cooled your head: now, to business~" He snapped his fingers, and minds and bodies reassembled on their chairs in his office.

The cheerful stripes and pinks and yellows seemed to stab the eyes worse than ever. His mind was still on the streets of Tokyo, face to face with… his future.

"_Calm down, it probably sounds worse than it actually is. Sen might be weird, but she's had that familiar, what, ten years? And she's no maniac killer, is she?_" But Sen was imprinted on a goblin: he was imprinted on a bloody _Prince_… "_Even he doesn't know exactly what will happen…_" Keep calm, keep it together… "Is there anything… _anything _that can be done…?" he asked, fumbling to come to terms with it. To accept that the chaos over the past days was going to become his everyday life. His fingers clung awkwardly to the curved armrests of the chair: he really needed a cigarette…

"Why, certainly~" Mephisto said in light tones, stirring health-hazardous amounts of sugar into a steaming teacup. "An imprint is an integrated part of your own nature: while it can't be reversed or removed, it is up to you whether to embrace or suppress that nature."

*tink* *tink* *tink* went the spoon against the cup, rhythmic and thin and nerve grating.

"It's the choice all humans make, every minute of every day: just a bit more challenging for someone whose nature tips towards the demonic", he smiled.

"That's all you have to say, after doing this to me?" Shiro seethed, feeling a furnace open in his gut to line every word with an edge of molten steel. "'Take care of it yourself, good luck and good bye'? Not even 'sorry I infected you with an imprint that will turn you into a monster'?"

He wasn't surprised, not really, but he _was_ furious; and if anything in the room deserved to bear the brunt of that, it was that callous, smiling bastard in the high-backed chair.

"Would you describe yourself as pure of heart, Shiro? A servant of good, led by conscience to treat his fellow humans with kindness and respect~?" Sweet mockery curled like a scorpion tail in his voice; and in the depths of the half-mast eyes, Shiro glimpsed Prince Samael. "You were no saint to begin with, little lion", he purred. "On the contrary, you had enough darkness in your heart to be compatible with mine." Compatible? _Compatible,_ with Satan's son…?

*tink* ... *tink* ... *tink*

"With or without imprint, you are a human in appearance and a demon at heart: and you are so by choice." Mephisto put the spoon down on the saucer and sipped. "Which has further supported my decision not to return the charm miss Honda gave you."

"What?" After all he'd said, after all he'd showed him, he was going to _deny _him…? "Are you completely out of your mind?!" he bellowed, a hairsbreadth from grabbing his chair and bringing it down on the demon's head. "You'll make me a sitting duck for all Gehenna's demons to gang up on – _that's _your idea of helping out?! I'll be dead within a week – I've had two demons trying to possess me already!"

"Trying", Mephisto emphasized with a polite smile that made Shiro ponder if a seventh murder would make any greater difference, now that he had been oh-so-helpfully pushed down that slope anyway. "You exorcised them yourself, did you not?"

"If you think I'll spend the rest of my life like that, you can go-"

Mephisto snapped his fingers and had Shiro effectively gagged and bound to the chair.

"Such hot blood in the young ones", he sighed, resting his cheek in his hand with the smile of one who is watching an unruly puppy attempt to drag away a shoe larger than itself. "As sweet as that mouth of yours is, it's good to also know how to use your ears. I have important things to tell you."

Oh, probably more great news, then. Shiro snorted through his gag and attempted to murder Mephisto with glares alone.

"My father cannot access Assiah, for the simple reason that nothing here is strong enough to contain him", he drawled. "At full power, there is nothing that can endure my presence either." Mephisto sipped tea with his little finger raised proudly as the bowsprit on a barque. "You should have died in Deep Keep, but your body seems – for lack of better word – _built _to house powers that humans normally can't. Isn't that interesting~?" he beamed. "Though, of course, I won't be the only one to think so. Father will be very interested in that body; not yet, but once he learns of your existence you will have to fight for your life every waking moment. 'All the more reason to have the pendant', your eyes say." Mephisto answered his glare with a pleasant smile. "That trinket will protect you no more than a sheet of rice paper would shield you from a downpour. Satan is a god: no charm or ward on earth can keep him away."

Shiro felt himself empty like a broken water tank. No, this couldn't…

"Fortunately for you, that resilient body came with a resilient mind~" That… was not a smile. That was an invitation to a game of Russian roulette, written out in two lines of sharp, white letters. "You will endure demons' assaulting you, until you learn to fend for yourself with no other ward than that mind: and you will temper it into a shield strong enough to keep demons out by force of will alone – strong enough to keep even Satan himself out. As long as he can't gain access to the darkness in your heart, he can't possess you. Furthermore~" The cup made the spoon company on the saucer with a soft clink. "As Director of True Cross Order Japan, I am bound by duty to eliminate demonic threats to Assiah. Should you fail to block access to your heart, you would be a potential gateway for Satan to enter Assiah: you see the pinch I'm in, yes~?"

It is an art, to menace without sounding menacing. To weave words into a silken slipknot noose and meander it around one's neck with serpentine politeness. It is an art, and Mephisto had had millennia to perfect it.

"The choice you have to make is a rather simple one: temper your mind, or I will have to eliminate you." He snapped his fingers and released Shiro from his bonds. "Well…?"

"'Well' what?" he snarled through clenched teeth. "It's not even a real choice. I'll do whatever it takes to stay alive and stay me."

"Splendid~!" Mephisto clapped his hands together in one of his nerve grating turnabouts. "Now, you already know the basics of blocking possession, but to help you fully grasp the theory behind I have prepared a few educational illustrations~" He snapped his fingers and summoned his bat to hover beside him with a stack of crayon drawings in its claws. "This is you", he said, using an oversized polkagris as pointer, and tapped at the yellow-haulmed karami daikon, "and when this demon", which looked more like a disgruntled potato with germ-horns, "tries to tap into your darkness, you must close your heart, as the next picture explains…"

Normal. Things would never be normal again.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Okay, I will in no way claim that the idea of imprint is canon, **it's just something that developed out of the fic itself. It seems, however, that demons strive to augment the darkness in a person, plausibly to make it easier to possess them: bring them out of balance, of sorts. And if you enter a "symbiosis", of the kind I've imagined up, I think you're likely to experience that augmentation little by little. The main idea, I think, could be canon. Only Mephisto could be "qualified" to determine that Shiro is indeed capable of living through possession by Satan. And I think he would need to "practice" on the lower-level demons he attracts, to learn to close his heart and fight off possession before Satan catches wind of this potential vessel.

Speaking of vessels: join me for a short trip back to the first chapter of the manga…?

_Shiro: "Demons tend to possess those most similar to themselves." / "Demons possess wicked souls." (different translations)_

**So there's two parameters** to being "the only person in the world Satan can possess": you need to have the physical/mental disposition to endure it… and you need to be like a demon yourself.

**Anecdote**: I was mulling over this chapter when I walked past the café next to the train station. They usually play music out in the street there, and I catch a line from a song I've never heard before: "he got a black heart, he got such a dirty black heart". And I cracked a huge grin. x3


	7. 59: Limited edition toys

**A/N:**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.  
**

* * *

White hair.

White eyebrows, tilting down towards the bridge of his nose.

Pathetic beard-growth. Always.

Maroon eyes – drawing slightly downwards at the corners. Dark circles underneath.

Eyes like a demon…?

Shiro could see no demon in the features the mirror showed him. He splashed water on his face and looked at himself again, hands resting on the edges of  
the sink.

Orphan.

Troublemaker.

Small-time criminal.

Murderer.

Vessel of Satan.

"At least it can't get any worse from here", he thought with a wry smile at his reflection. Shiro put his glasses back on and went out for evening practice.

Closing one's heart was not a pleasant experience. That said, it wasn't unpleasant; just uncomfortable. It was like a starched uniform of the mind, stiff and  
creaking and restraining. It took a lot of concentration to maintain, and inside the Academy he occasionally let it slip to focus on lessons.

Outside the Academy, he held his shield up constantly. Tiring and annoying, yes, but it had to be drilled into a motor skill he could perform without even  
thinking. For now, however, he was glad that he had to divert his thoughts to it.

Tch, it was unpleasant. No matter what he wanted to tell himself, it was. Close off your heart? Close off emotional response with it. It wasn't so much a  
uniform as a mental isolation cell: nothing truly got through to him, and nothing came out of him. It was similar, in a way, to the cold detachment that let  
him do horrible things without blinking. If you don't feel, you don't care: you know that what you do might hurt somebody, but that's a mechanical knowledge.  
It doesn't really bother you.

"_Brought it on myself, no use complaining about it…_" he muttered as he strolled through the streets.

It was still early enough for people to be out, and late enough for some of them to be thinking of going home. Those were the decisions ordinary people  
concerned themselves with, worlds apart from him. Worlds so close, yet so far apart: he saw all the coal tars hovering lazily in the air, and felt stronger  
presences awake in the dusk here and there. No one knew of those presences. No one knew of him.

He turned into an unlit alley, a shortcut to the less populated streets. A bitter smile crooked his lips: it wasn't humans he was out to meet, anyway. He was  
alone in the alleys between the laughing people and the desolate silence, a drifting entity between day and night. Alone between worlds.

* * *

Shiro wiggled the unlit cigarette up and down with his tongue, pondering what to do. He knew he was being tailed, and he knew by whom. That didn't bother  
him: what did bother him was _how _he knew. He just knew. Knew the way you know where your hand or foot is.

Telling him to quit skulking about would confirm that he could sense him, which in turn would confirm that the imprint… was real. He didn't want to admit that.  
He didn't want to admit that he had changed, and would keep changing, even if-

"_Oh for crying out loud!_" he snapped at himself. "_As if it would matter! Admitting or no admitting; doesn't change anything, does it?_" He plucked the cigarette  
from his mouth to yell at Mephisto to show himself, but halted. No, he knew how to address that old goat _properly_…

Shiro put the smoke back between his lips and fished out his lighter. Flicking the switch, and cupping his hand around the cigarette, he focused: focused on the  
part of him that wasn't him, but that he could still… feel.

He drew a breath of smoke, closed his lighter… and hurled it into the shadows of a container for waste construction material.

"Nice catch", he said, casually shoving his hands into his pockets as Mephisto's immaculately white shape melted into vision.

"Guten Abend to you too." The lamplight glinted off the lighter between his thumb and forefinger. "Need I really tell you that throwing things at people is very  
rude…?"

"It's quite rude to stalk people, too", Shiro observed in mock-polite tones.

"Stalk? Dear Shiro, a gentleman does no such thing. As your principal, I am responsible for your safety." Mephisto sauntered over to him with the hideous  
umbrella for walking stick. "Even more so since I have part in your current condition. I merely wanted to be sure nothing happens to you during practice."

Oh, what a load of crap.

"Really?" Shiro's smile widened into sardonic sweetness. "I thought guardian angels came from the other department. And with a little less fangs." He blew a  
fan of smoke at the sky, tapping ashes off the end of the cigarette while he did. "You're here to keep an eye on me, alright; I'm your new limited-edition toy,  
and it would suck pretty hard if I got mangled by some rogue demon before you were done playing." He shifted his weight to his other foot, giving Mephisto a  
calculating look. "'Making use of its unknown potential', was it?" He held out his hand for his lighter. "First new trick to learn: blocking demons."

Oh, it amused him. He wouldn't let it show, but Shiro knew. There were ideas and expectations crawling in those green eyes like maggots in a cadaver. Mephisto  
always appreciated a bold player.

"First new trick learnt: sensing demons." Mephisto placed the lighter in his upturned palm. "And thinking like one."

Shiro tensed. Stared at that pleasant face. Realized.

"_Son of a…_" He felt like crumpling up his head and all it's contents like a piece of trash paper: yes, he had just proven that he knew how demons worked. "Tch,  
aren't you a clever one…?" he muttered as he tucked the lighter back into his pocket. Words drifted into his mind like a rancid stench you can't escape no matter  
where you turn your head: _are ye even human? _"If you're done playing, can you leave?"

"Ah – and for the longest time I hoped the imprint would have transferred some manners into you", he sighed, tilting his head to the side with a less-than-  
impressed look. "Seems nothing will change that, however."

"You're not done playing, then", Shiro bluntly observed. "What do you want?"

"Always the wrong questions~" he smiled, voice lowering as his eyelids did. "What do _you _want, Shiro?"

"I want my old life back."

He didn't care if he told the plain truth to the demon: he would know anyway, just like Shiro knew he was being toyed with. The heated coals in his chest – the  
mark the demon had left on his heart – flickered like the gleam in Mephisto's eyes. Shiro subdued it. Wouldn't do to lose his temper, even if that callous bastard  
made it difficult not to…

"And what would you be willing to do, to have it back…?"

Dealing with demons never brings any good. Dealing with demons always has you paying for more than you get. Dealing with demons is the last resort for the  
ones whose hearts have been eaten empty by fear, and whose hope has fallen apart to desperation.

…and then there are the ones whose hearts have closed to desperation and fear alike.

"Anything", he said, seeing the wicked spark in the green eyes and coldly surrendering his fate to it.

"Excellent!" Said eyes shrunk to crescents above the wide grin. "No need for me to interfere, then~" He bid his farewell with a touch to the brim of his hat, and  
the white cape billowed as he turned on his heel to leave. Just like that.

"What…?" Focus broken, Shiro tumbled out of his detachment in sheer bewilderment.

"With the will to do anything, I'm sure you can accomplish anything", he concluded in bouncy tones, winking over his shoulder. "Not quite able to follow a  
demon's line of thought after all, are you~?"

And before Shiro could piece together a snide reply, Mephisto had poofed away.

"Wha-? You arrogant little…!" Baiting him, _baiting _him and making fun of him in such an insensitive…! "Next time, that holy water will be in your bathtub,  
Sammy!"

No response. His presence could still be felt, but nowhere close by.

"_I can't believe that lame shit was the best I could come up with_", he snorted at himself, reaching for his lighter to re-light the cigarette that had gone out.  
"_What an absolute jerk he is._" He groaned, feeling a nerve yank his eyebrow into a twitch. "Oi, you crap guardian angel!" he shouted at the darkening sky.  
"Hand my lighter back!"

No response. Shiro put the cigarette between his teeth anyway, shoved his hands into his pockets, and turned to walk back to the Academy. No demon-blocking  
practice when he was this wound-up. Mephisto wasn't done playing, no. Far from it.

* * *

_True Cross Town – a sprawling mass of life, as it were, its steady flow of humans the life-blood that filled its streets, milling in thousands to carry out the daily  
work that poured__nourishment into the districts and allowed for the steady breath of activity day and night. It had grown – overnight, even, one could  
say – where the_ _Academy had been built, like mycorrhiza nesting among the roots of a host tree. It supplied its host with nourishment, practice, goods, and  
students:_ _the Academy in turn provided protection, education, and payment. A mutualistic arrangement. The creation of one thing births another, adapted  
to suit_ _the needs of the first, and give rise to that intricate weft that binds together all the constituents of the world. That was merely one of the many ways  
in_ _which Assiah was… fascinating._

_Green eyes encompassed the town, now a city, through the century since its birth until the current size of it today. The dusk-lit lights at his feet_ _outnumbered  
the stars in the sky, the sounds of combustion engines and electricity and voices rising and falling like an ocean. All the wonders humanity had amazed him  
with, and yet..._

_Yet, humans were the most fascinating things of all._

_And out of all the thousands of humans in True Cross Town, Fujimoto Shiro had fallen into his hands. Fujimoto Shiro, the boy that could harbour the heart_ _of  
Gehenna's third strongest. A human boy with a cunning mind and a passionate heart – indeed, what an interesting toy Lady Chance had given him._

one thing births another

_That boy had potential, potential he couldn't even begin to assess…_

to suit the needs of the first

_So many possibilities laid out before him, outnumbering_

_the lights in heaven and below…_

and give rise to a weft

_Given the right motivation, and the right guidance…_

that binds together the world

_A boy with his determination…_

and if you can fashion the weft after your own desires

_A boy with a human heart and a demon's mind…_

you can shape the world

_Lady Chance had given him an interesting toy indeed._


	8. 60: Rude awakening

**A/N:**

I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.

* * *

****Mornings – the atrocious purgatory between bliss sleep and waking, unless you have a free period. As it were, Shiro did.

Shiro was very good at sleeping, as many teenage boys are, and he enjoyed mornings like this one to an almost immoral degree. The duvet was kicked off just enough to allow for that delicate balance between warmth and cool to be optimal, his body was sprawled in just the right position, and he'd found that perfect spot on the pillow that wrapped his head in soft, fuzzy clouds. If not for the darker clouds inside his head, it would have been heaven.

There's a grey zone between sleeping and waking, and several between feeling and not feeling. Mephisto was a jerk… smart and funny and a complete jerk… with an annoying habit of being right… True; if you really are prepared to work your ass off to achieve something, you will most likely succeed.

Shiro heaved a sigh into his pillow as loose scenes from his endeavours drifted into each other across the lines of dream and memory. There was a grey zone somewhere between closing his heart entirely and closing it just enough to protect himself, and he would find that grey zone… if he ever wanted to function like a normal human being again… he would show that conceited demon…

Shiro had come to understand Sen in ways he wished he never had. That chilling, empty face of hers mirrored the control she exercised over her emotions, same thing he was learning to do… same still mask of unfeeling that he had to wear every day…

Midori… god, why was she gay…? …bouncy and cheerful as usual around him, just like she'd promised… and no matter how deep he sank into emotion- lessness, that hurt more than anything. His choice, his consequences; not hers…

Still… hanging with them was better than being around Shizuku and Ryuuji. Ryuuji, poor fuck… He should support him, somehow, but words always died halfway out of his mouth. And made things even more awkward between them. Shizuku noticed, of course. He noticed everything. He was a little like a fighting dog, not letting go of what he'd bitten into…

Shiro smiled giddily at the thought of Shizuku as a dog. He should be a shepherd of some sort, wandering in the wilds… larger than Mephisto, anyway…

Mephisto…

Shiro turned his mellow body over to face the wall instead of the intrusive rays of the sun, marinating himself in comfortable snoozing. It was a jolly hell, really. Inside the Academy, the worried glances from classmates, and the silence and pretending that gnawed his patience thin as spider web: outside the Academy, a host of "suitors" trying to snatch his body given even half an opportunity.

It was the most splendid irony, that there was one place where he didn't have to worry about either… Shiro reminded himself, with no hope of remembering it when he woke properly, to put the lighter in his blazer pocket next time he did his homework inMephisto's office: bloody old goat had made a habit of poofing it away if he kept it in the usual trouser pocket. "_That 'brick on legs' you're sitting on happens to be antique, and the stench of cigarette smoke will never go out of the cushions._" Shiro smiled behind closed eyes, recalling how the demon's barely visible eyebrows spiked downward like a set of inruns for ski jumping…

Such a splendid irony… that the one who'd gotten him into this mess was the only one he could be himself around…

…what if…

…he could also get him out of the mess…?

Shiro's sleepy thoughts wrapped around the idea that floated up from his subconscious and turned it over, like a monkey examining a man-made object it has no idea how to use. It wasn't half bad, though… Shouldn't be impossible to talk Mephisto into that, if he put his words right… "_Take the gamble; else you won't know if the boat sinks or floats, will you?_" He could hear him perfectly… "_You really should invest in a pyjamas, my friend._" Odd thing for him to say, though… "_Yare yare, Sleeping Beauty out like a candle…_" Even more… odd.

Shiro scowled and forced one eye open a sliver.

Next thing he knew, the back of his head hit the wall, and his heart was hammering his Adam's apple to mush. He had no actual idea what he'd done, only that the faintly glowing green eyes had been _too close_.

"Good reflexes", Mephisto observed, still leaning over the bed, and eyed the knifepoint aimed at his face with an air of calm surprise. "Sharing your bed must be a very interesting experience."

What was- why was he- when did…? Shiro's body might be awake, but his brain wasn't…

"Wanna do me here?"

...

_Hell no._

"I was only half awake, you idiot!" Shiro's sputtering met with hysterical laughter. "'What do you want with me?' and 'What are you doing here?' – _that's _what I meant to say! I just said it at the same time!" Glorious start on this day, good work: what was that he'd promised himself again, never to speak when he was tired…? "Wipe that grin off your face, you pervert! I wasn't awake! I didn't know what I was saying!"

"Ahahahahhaaahihihaheheheee~! Ahah-haaah, haaah…" Mephisto's shoulders still trembled with laughter as he wiped tears from his eyes. "Oh, your spirit is there whenever the mind is not, dear Sigmund, ahahahaaah…"

Shiro was not in the least interested in who Sigmund was, but rather interested indeed in why he had a giggling demon collapsed on his duvet.

"What are you doing in my bed?" he demanded, as he folded his switchblade together and tried to will his flustered face cool.

"What am _I _doing in your bed?" Mephisto propped himself up on his elbow, showing no intention whatsoever to leave the bed. "Shiro, Shiro, you really should think before you open your mouth. The question is 'what are _you _doing in your bed?' Don't you know what day it is?"

Shiro's startled heart skipped a beat, but he kept emotion from reaching his face. No, Mephisto couldn't know that, there was no way he could-

"Let's see~" Mephisto clicked open a golden pocket-watch from within his uniform. "You have three minutes and twenty-nine seconds to get dressed and pack." He closed the watch. "Anything else you might want to do – or want me to do – will have to wait until we have embarked the car." The grin on his lips obliterating any subtlety attempted, he rose to leave the room.

"You perverted old- Oi, stop, just what-" Nope: missed grabbing the hem of the cape and flailed face-first onto the floor. Wonderful. His body was no more awake than his brain was.

"That's three minutes and twenty-one seconds", Mephisto smiled as he courteously unfolded the glasses from the table and bent down to put them on Shiro's nose. "My my, you've gained some muscle since last time I saw you in this state of undress."

Shiro ignored the comment and focused on the main question:

"What am I packing for?"

"What a question! The joint meeting with the Futotsuki clan, of course!"


	9. 61: Fumbling for grey zones

**A/N: I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

****Fancy car. Didn't hold a candle to Mephisto's private one, but it did on the other hand look more professional. More "exorcistic". It was sleek and black, with tinted windows, and it had a separating wall between the driver's seats and the back seats. And it smelled faintly of mint and expensive after-shave.

"Hey, I was thinking…" Shiro had braided his fingers together behind his head, slouching comfortably in the large seat. "Basically everyone I know has figured out that we have a connection. Denying it just makes it look weird." He glanced over at the only other occupant in the car, who sat a lot more… correct… than he did. Though _daintily_ was probably a better word for the straight back and the effeminately crossed legs. "Isn't it about time to go official? Say that we know each other, make it seem less suspicious and more like ordinary friendship?"

"Ordinary?" Green eyes looked up from the latest issue of _Shoujo Friend_. "Your concept of ordinary might be a little askew, but I can assure you that most would not think of friendship between human and demon as anywhere near ordinary."

"Someone's gotta be first", Shiro shrugged. "You were the first demon to hold a position within the Order; why not be the first to have a human friend?"

"That took a lot of effort, mind you. A seed will not grow if sown in too harsh conditions." He did that thing again; thought so fast that the reflections flitted over his eyes like a flock of crows at dusk fall. "But perhaps conditions are just right… We shall allow the first meet to pass, and, if the climate is favourable, it might be time to sow a seed that will move the world yet another step away from the fears and phantasms of Medieval Age." Mephisto returned to his reading, but left one final comment for him: "Be aware, you take a gamble still. Such an announcement might worsen relations with your classmates rather than solve the tension."

"_Saw through that straight away, did he…?_" Shiro pondered, unable to feel properly surprised. "_Even when I close my heart off. Not that it was that hard to figure out, and I did leave a small crack open… still…_" His brow furrowed, and his eyes travelled idly over the forested landscape outside the tinted window. "_The imprint is his: what if-_"

"Sorry…?" He turned his attention back to the inside of the car.

"How did we meet?" Mephisto repeated in matter-of-factly tones, still reading his manga.

"What? I broke into your office and got a Naberius through the barrier."

"Yes, and that would make a charming story when people wonder how this peculiar friendship came to be."

"Oh. Right, now I get it." Hadn't thought about it, but they would need a more legally acceptable explanation… preferably one that actually sounded credible… "We could've met at the game arcade."

"Unfortunately, no."

"What's wrong with that?"

"I've been banned from the premises since 1973", he said and turned another page.

"You, banned? For what? Sexual harassment?"

"What do you think of me?" he snorted indignantly. "I was accused of feeding the machine fake coins; I couldn't very well say that I was using magic to run as many games of _Space Race _as I wanted."

…yeah, he could see that happen.

"You stingy old bat…" Shiro grinned, shoulders trembling with laughter. "How about we met at the race tracks, then?"

At this, Mephisto gave him a quizzical sideways glance.

"Aren't you a minor…?"

"Ah, forgot that." Didn't stop him form betting in horse races, but it wouldn't make a very good official story. "Um…" What other places did he frequent that Mephisto might also visit…? "Do you go to the night market?"

"Not for many years now. We could have met at a bookshop", the demon suggested.

"Uh, no. I don't usually read… that stuff." He made a half-hearted gesture at the new chapters of _Haikara-san ga Touru_ that Mephisto was engrossed in. "_Berusayu no Bara_ was the first manga series I ever read, actually. I've never even been to a bookshop: you're my private library, sort of…" Mephisto gazed at him with a look that was both aghast and astounded. "How about the cinema?" …Shiro almost punched himself. "_What am I thinking? I only go to the cinema on dates…_"

"Impossible: I buy all the tickets for the show when I go to the cinema."

...yes, Mephisto was good at contradictive behaviors, but that just didn't add up. At all.

"You won't pay fifty yen to play the arcades, but you pay to have a whole movie theatre to yourself…?"

"I prefer watching my films in comfort, and that was simply not had in any other way. There would always be some visitor complaining about my height, so I was forced to sit at the far back of the theatre. And there was no way I could bend space for my legs without anyone noticing. You people are so short, it's incredible. I had the railway to the Academy custom built after I rode the Tokyo Touden and couldn't even stand straight."

"Snrrrrkkukukuku…" Shiro could vividly picture how the shadow of Mephisto's curl bobbed at the centre of the projection screen, and how it vibrated in annoyance on a tram where he could neither stand straight up or fit himself into the small seats. It was a thing of joy. "Hearing of your tremendous hardships really warms my heart, you know…"

* * *

The exchange deteriorated to be less and less about likely connection points, and more and more a game of suggesting the most far-fetched places in which they could have met, each from their own list of references.

"We could have met at the Tokyo Takarazuka Theatre", Mephisto proposed.

"…seriously? You even want your women to look like men?"

"No, you monkey", he snorted, and launched into one of those peculiar, theatrical monologues that led Shiro to suspect that the Mephistopheles in the old operas were based on a real-life reference: "A woman should have the movements of a gentle breeze in cherry branches, the looks of a nymph risen from dreams unspoken, and the song of the sirens burning in her veins~" It made it all the more funny that Mephisto gestured like a Kabuki actor when he described his ideal woman. "The Takarazuka troupes accept only the most beautiful, most promising actresses in the country: the entertainment in their performances is twofold."

"Amen to that. And I was there because…" He didn't want to take the obvious option and say he'd been dating one of the actresses… "I was part of the catering crew that supplied food in the pause. I did have a catering job for a short time, until they decided to adopt a no-smoking policy for everybody that handled food."

"I suppose I met you after finding a cigarette butt in the bouffet and having a word with your employer."

"Oi, that's how much faith you have in me…? What actually happened was that they didn't like that I sneaked little bits to taste from the dishes. The no-smoking-employees thing was just something they made up to have reason enough to fire me." Shiro gave Mephisto a sideways look that was sheepish and impish at the same time. "After _that _they found cigarettes in the bouffet." He stretched and took a peek out the window. They had been driving for quite a while now. The road had begun meandering and gain altitude in a landscape that to his city eyes looked wild and exciting. "I couldn't afford a ticket to Takarazuka in real life, otherwise that story would've actually worked. My turn…" He folded his hands behind his head and stared hard at the ceiling. What was the unlikeliest place you'd ever find Mephisto…? "Okay, okay, how about this: we met at the abandoned military storage sheds where the motorcycle gangs meet."

"What is it that makes all human boys want to increase their odds of a premature death?" Mephisto groaned. "Right, right: I was there…" He fingered the chain to his exorcist badge contemplatively. "…the only reason I could possibly find myself at such a location is because I'd sensed unusual demonic activity. Not unlikely, given the clientele in such gangs." His gaze turned back to Shiro. "I probably met you when you almost ran me over."

"Might've tried, if I'd had a bike", Shiro admitted, snickering at the idea. "I was never really part of the gang, just hung around for the girls. Man, biker girls…! Not exactly gentle breezes in cherries", he grinned wolfishly, "but their fruits are sweet and bountiful." He rubbed the meagre stubble of beard on his chin. Hadn't had time to shave before they left, but the razor was packed with the rest of his things in the duffel on the car floor. "I was just fifteen or something back then; way too short and scrawny to ride a bike. Couldn't afford one, either. Now maybe I could do it, if I had the money." He chortled at the remembered sounds and scents that tickled recollection. "And if I hadn't stolen one of the bikers' girlfriend: wrong way to gain notoriety in those circles. I was lucky he got done in by the yakuza before he hunted me down. The girl was worth it, though." He whistled, indicating with his hands exactly what kind of fruits one could expect from a biker's chick. "Though, in retrospect, I suppose not. It could've ended really bad."

"Badly", Mephisto corrected.

"You and Shizu-san…" He didn't really like it, how his thoughts recoiled from the topic when it brushed past. "It's amazing I'm still alive, with all the stupid things I've done…"

"Indeed." The demon chuckled and turned a page. "I get a prickling feeling that I've accidentally done a good deed in getting you into exorcist cram school."

"Must feel horrible."

"You can't even imagine."

"Your dad would be ashamed of you."

"If he could feel shame, yes."

"Seriously, though…" It was so stupid, but he was so curious… He didn't want to pry, and yet he'd itched to ask ever since he found out who Mephisto was. "What's it like to have a dad like him?"

To his surprise, the smile on the demon's lips only grew wider.

"Of all the questions, you pick that one? Wondering why I came to Assiah, why I joined the Order, why I hide my true identity – and that is the first question that comes to your lips?" He turned a page with a merry chuckle. "It's like outpacing thought."

"What?" Shiro had never been the kind to spend hours pondering Zen riddles, and he was at a complete loss when faced with this one. "Yeah, smile a little wider; I'm not gonna ask you to explain so you can make fun of me for being a monkey." But how do you outpace a thought? What does that even mean…? "If you don't wanna answer, just say so."

"I did answer: it's not my problem if you don't understand it~"

So childish, that son of a…! No, don't rise to the taunt. Mephisto called him stupid? He could do stupid…

"I understand it", he claimed with a huff, measuring the amount of annoyance he let show. "You can't outpace thought 'cause it's too fast, but I can't see how your dad being fast is any answer to the question." It sounded like his usual piqued tone, hopefully… and just the right degree of impertinent. "And it's obvious that he's more powerful, too, so you can't overcome him: a kid could figure that out, so it's no answer at all." And now: a Bright Idea… Shiro dropped Impertinent Annoyance and dressed his face in Curious Surprise. "Oh, I see… Satan doesn't really exist, does he? He's a thought, 'the darkness in the human heart', so he's not an actual person but an idea; an idea fuelled by so many people it's gained shape and consciousness, like-"

The magazine was flattened onto the white-uniformed lap: Mephisto had had enough.

"I can't fathom how you can be so unbelievably-" _Click_. Yes: to Shiro, it was almost audible when thoughts clicked in Mephisto's head. "Not stupid", he amended at the end of the sentence, taking Shiro in with a gaze that saw more than human eyes did. "Only making yourself out to be, to rile me into explaining." Mephisto grinned appreciatively. "How devious of you."

Shiro raised his hands slightly in surrender.

"Worth a try", he smiled. "Annoys the hell out of you, too, so it wasn't an entirely wasted effort."

"Indeed." He picked up his magazine again and pulled a face like one smelling something foul. "There is nothing worse than stupid people: exasperating, and completely useless."

"Aren't stupid people easier for demons to mislead?" Shiro inquired, surprised at the statement. "Not that hard to persuade, or am I entirely on the wrong track?"

"A prerequisite for manipulation is that there is something to manipulate", Mephisto said with a meaningful glance. "Manoeuvring a human of average intellect requires choice words and subtle persuasion; manoeuvring an imbecile requires a crowbar. And more patience than any demon has."

"I think you've got pretty good patience", Shiro chuckled at the demon's choice of words. "Haven't seen any crowbar yet." At least he wasn't an idiot, then. Just good at acting like one. Too good, some would say… "You've already listed the questions for me, so I'll stop beating around the bush: why did you join the enemy's side? And no goddamn koan."*

"Enemies one can choose, but not family." Mephisto put his hand to his chest in a humble nod-bow. "Though born in Gehenna, my heart beats for Assiah and the human race, and all the wonders it invents on its quest for the stars~ This world has been my home for ages, a lovely and beautiful such: I merely do my part to keep it that way." He returned the gloved fingers to the pages of _Shoujo Friend_. "My father covets Assiah as much as I do, but not for the sake of humanity. What he wants to destroy, I wish to protect: that's why I joined the Order."

How grand. Words that were exactly what one could expect from Mephisto, but something between the chiming lines was jarringly off-key. Mephisto could _not_ be that altruistically philanthropic. If it was truth that sounded like a lie, or a lie that sounded true… A mix of both, probably. It could be true, for all he knew, but Mephisto had a tongue of silver. And he was Satan's son.

"And your dad just let you waltz off to Assiah to work for the exorcists? I somehow find that hard to believe."

"Choice words, Shiro~" he smiled in that supremely self-satisfied way that only he could. "I left under the pretence of being a good son and intending to spread chaos in the world: keep up that pretence, and I can do as I please. There is no way for father to monitor me without blowing my cover, and thus he can't know what I'm actually doing." The paged rustled softly under his fingers. "I've always thought it a splendid irony that his boundless power is exactly what makes the boundaries of Assiah impossible for him to transcend."

That… _that_, Shiro's gut told him, was closer to the truth: because if Satan couldn't enter Assiah, Mephisto would be the biggest fish in the pond. And that… would suit his ego just fine.

Still, so many loopholes and question marks to twist lies into truth, and vice versa… a maze worse than das Labyrint des Limbus…

"Well, good job and welcome to Assiah. Going back to business, our best shot is probably meeting at school", Shiro mused aloud, deciding that mulling over the replies he'd gotten was better than pushing the matter and get his head twisted into a knot.

"Maybe you just ran through the corridors, late for class, and collided with me when you turned a corner? I helped you gather up your papers and we started talking-"

"That sounds like a scene out of shoujo manga", Shiro observed in flat tones.

"What's wrong with that?" Mephisto had such a good Innocent Face – it was incredible, considering who he was…

"A million things, but mostly that it sounds like the kind of meeting that will end with dressing up in yukatas and holding hands while watching fireworks from a secluded viewpoint." Girls somehow found that very romantic. He had no idea why.

"Doesn't sound all that different from the end you had in mind just this morning~" …and in the blink of an eye, innocence was the last word you'd associate with that face.

"Yeah, that end…" Shiro rubbed his eyes with a groan. "Can we just agree that when I'm tired, you don't listen to a single word I say…?"

* * *

Being around Mephisto… He would never admit it out loud, but… it was sort of relaxing. He could even leave a small crack open to his heart, and it worked fine: Mephisto's presence seemed to keep most demons at a respectful distance.

Shiro refused to believe it was the invisible mark of the imprint in his heart. He was no more compatible with Mephisto than he was with anyone else. Sure, they had things in common, but they had even more differences. No, it wasn't magic or darkness that made him feel at ease around Satan's eldest. It was something stronger.

Secrets divide, but they can also bond. When you share something you would never share with anyone else, you place part of yourself in another's hands: an act of trust and respect that creates bonds stronger than steel or stone. And acceptance… to be accepted for what you are and what you've done, to have that respect and trust returned to you… that forges bonds solid.

None of his classmates would ever look at him again if they knew what he had done; no human would.

But a demon…

Mephisto knew what he had done, and he didn't bat an eye at the blood on Shiro's hands. He treated him the same as always, something Shiro had never expected he would be so grateful for; and unlike Midori's painted smile, Mephisto's was real. Full of fangs and wider than sanity and conscience would allow, yes, but real. The only real smile Shiro had seen in weeks.

Maybe he would never feel human around humans again; but with Mephisto, he did. He did, because it's only in contrast with bright light that you notice how dark the shadows are: and it's only in contrast with pitch black that you can perceive grey tones in shadow.

Like a moth unto flame…

He knew why moths fly to flame.

That flickering promise of warmth that lights the darkness, even if the vow of death comes with it… when the world turns its back on you, and every light is as cold and distant as the stars… the flame of hell still offers warmth.

Shiro pushed the chilling thought out of his mind with an even colder one: he'd been no saint to begin with. With or without Mephisto's interference, the path he'd paved for himself didn't lead skywards – and if you're going to hell, you might as well enjoy the ride. If Mephisto could make him forget the demons breathing down his neck, and his fate beyond the grave – even for just a moment –, then he didn't care if the bond between their hearts-

…eww.

The bond they had forged when he had lent his body to-

Uh, no.

The bond that had formed when he'd had Mephisto inside-

_No_.

"You're making strange faces, Shiro", Mephisto observed with a distrustful scowl. "Are you going to be carsick?"

"If I get sick, it's not from the car", he groaned.

* * *

A/N:

* Koan – Zen riddle, a problem designed to provoke deep thought and measure a student's progress.

Many sharp turns in this chapter, huh…? =_=' I apologize for that, but Shiro is experiencing quite the emotional rollercoaster in my head. Cling to the light that slips his fingers, or embrace the darkness that welcomes him with open arms…?

See, I need to somehow motivate him to become a priest in the future. ^_^' He wasn't exactly a believer the way I wrote him in the beginning, but with his afterlife in the balance he might want to reconsider?

…and do you recognise the "Zen riddle"? It's a small snippet from… (what, there's no translation?) …uh, _Tors färd till Utgårdaloke_. It's part of the _Prose Edda_ written on Iceland in the 13th century; a part where Tor, Loke, and Tjalve are challenged by giants to prove their worth. Loke's challenge is to eat faster than Loge, but that didn't fit my intentions very well, so I used Tjalve's challenge: sprinting faster than Huge.

Those "tests" are laced with magic, of course. No matter how fast Loke eats, he can't eat faster (or more completely) than Loge, who is fire disguised as a man, and whose name means Flame. No matter how fast Tjalve runs, he can't outrun Huge, whose name means Thought.

…so, any ideas on what I intend with "It's like outpacing thought" in this chapter? Both Shiro's guesses are wrong. =P And writing your guesses is the only way you'll get to know, I'm not writing this out in the fic…


	10. 62: Silver tongue

**A/N: I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

****It was the kind of place that doesn't exist in reality. On postcards, yes, but not in reality. Real grass isn't that green, and real sky can't be that viciously blue. The lush valley cradled the community as one would a newborn, and parted its sloping walls like drawn curtains to reveal a landscape of wild forests and mountains tinted blue by heavy mist.

"Ah, what a beautiful day!" Mephisto looked like he would embrace the whole scenery in his outstretched arms. "A day for diplomacy to vanquish enmity and tie the bonds of brotherhood across the dividing chasms of ideals! Don't you agree, Shiro? …oh, marvellous. Clean, fresh mountain air, and the first thing you do is pollute it with your cigarettes."

"Turn your sensitive nose some other direction, princess." Shiro drew a bliss breath, and felt his stomach settle. In the end, the winding mountain roads did get him carsick. "It's been thirteen hours since I last had a smoke – that's like thirteen hours without arcade games, books or TV for you."

"Completely irrelevant comparison", he frowned, slinging his pink umbrella over his shoulder. He fit the environment, sort of: real umbrellas weren't that pink…

"Oh yeah?" Shiro grinned and retrieved his duffel from the seat. "Let's bet on that, shall we? See who can hold out longer: you without entertainment, or me without smokes."

Mephisto turned the umbrella slowly between his fingers, measuring him with a calculating gaze.

"If I win, you quit smoking."

"Really bugs ya, doesn't it?" Shiro smiled and trailed the winding smoke with his eyes. "And if I win…" Make him give up gaming, books and TV…? That was just too cruel… "You have to wear normal clothes for a week." Seeing the demon's perplexed mien, he snickered. "Need me to tell you what's normal…?" He gestured at himself. "Shirt, long trousers, and a suit. Single colour. No pinks or purples." And with a devilish grin, he yanked playfully at Mephisto's cravat. "And a plain, black tie. No polka-dots."

Mephisto's eyes narrowed, and he tugged his beloved cravat back in place.

"When we return to the Academy, the bet is on."

"Sure is."

* * *

The Futotsuki clan's village was too small to house any greater number of visitors, and it lay in rather wild terrain: for those reasons, and somebody's opinion of neutrality, a nearby scenic tourist resort had been selected for the meeting instead. The resort wasn't much larger than the village, in actuality, but it had two ryokan – one on each slope of the small valley – that would serve as lodgings.

Shiro drew a deep breath of warm summer air and had to admit that yes, it tasted much better than in the city. When Mephisto wasn't looking, he loosened the tie and undid the top button of his shirt. The demon had demanded that he wear the full uniform for the occasion, despite the temperature. Something about looking proper. Well, screw looking proper: Mother Nature dictated the terms for dress code, and today the code was "not more than necessary".

They were greeted by a traditionally clad elderly man surrounded by the air of ease that comes with age and experience. He didn't seem at all fazed by the purple hair or the pointy ears it betrayed. Then again, he might not be able to see demons.

"Welcome to our village", he said in a creaky voice, bowing with an equally creaky back. "I am Honda Shinobu, and I preside over the logistics for this event. We have two ryokan, as I'm sure you can see-" Shinobu cut himself short and blinked a couple of times at Shiro. "A bit warm, young man? Why, it certainly is. Such a beautiful day, no? Please, we can talk in the entrance hall of Kiridani Ryokan where the air conditioning is running. Odds are at least one of you is booked to stay there."

Shiro ignored Mephisto's less-than-pleased glares and followed. His carsickness dissipated quickly as the old man led them down the gravel road to the ryokan closest by. It was a beautiful, old-fashioned construction, three stories high, with artfully cut shrubs lining the paved walkway. The foyer was small, but cool: something others, too, had taken advantage of. There were uniformed men and women chattering in different tongues in different corners, some of them Western and some Japanese, and boisterous kids running around on the marble tiles and playing exorcists and demons: at least Shiro assumed so, since a blonde girl who caught her little brother promptly set to declaim some loud gibberish and crossing herself.

At the reception counter, they were asked for their names.

"Sir Pheles, Mephisto."

"Fujimoto Shiro."

The receptionist was very cute, which made Shiro pay enough attention to her face to notice the brief, odd look she quickly hid.

And in moments, he understood why.

"You did _what_…?"

Shiro was okay with Mephisto's preferences. He was okay with anything, as long as it didn't involve him. Didn't that sound like a simple and handy differentiation…? No. Because regardless who was on his menu and who wasn't, Mephisto was an incurable prankster and a pathological tease.

"I don't believe it! Of all the things you could…! You wrote me in on the guest list as your _wife_?!"

"Say it a little louder, I don't think the Venetian ambassador's interpreter caught it all", Mephisto replied pleasantly. They had assumed seats in the far corner, which had become vacant after one diplomat had said goodbye to his wife and kids and left to check in at the other ryokan. "I wrote you in as attaché, and the accommodation is divided into 'diplomatic envoys' and 'attachés'; the latter of which in this case means spouses and families."

The most devious ability in demons is not magic, nor strength or cruelty or claws: it is their figurative silver tongues. That's how they bend and twist reality to have exactly the shape that suits them.

"That's the whole problem: the only ones staying here are their families. I'll stand out like a sore thumb, and you know what the diplomat wives will do?" he seethed, feeling a vein bulge ominously at his temple. "They will sit around the playground, watch their little runts tumble in the dirt, and gossip about the Japanese Branch Director's _male_ _concubine_!"

"You are most welcome to share my room in the diplomats' building, if you believe that would generate less gossip", he returned with a smile so earnestly amicable that a person who didn't know him wouldbelieve that he really meant to help. Shiro did know him, and his willingness to help was as rudimentary as his drawing skills. "I don't believe I will make much use of it anyway", he mused aloud, turning the umbrella slowly with its tip resting on the floor. "Futotsuki territory has always been a haven for demons, and this time of year there are plenty of night-time festivities in the woods. It would be a nice change, after long hours in hard chairs…"

Night-time festivities: Mephisto had a silver tongue indeed. Shiro masked his laughter with a disgruntled huff. Oh, he could imagine what 'night-time festivities' meant: plenty of woodcut illustrations of that in old witch-hunting manuals.

"Can take the demon out of hell, but can't take hell out of the demon?" he chuckled, tipping his lighter back and forth in his fingers. "What a splendid hypocrite you are – and right under the noses of the Vatican representatives."

"Hypocrite? Hardly~ True to my love for Assiah and true to my nature as a demon: where, do tell, can you glean hypocrisy in that?" he asked in lilting tones. "When Assiah offers her treasures in such unconditioned abundance, how can anyone resist to sample her riches? Without tasting life in all its forms and varieties, how can anyone claim to be truly alive? No, hypocrisy belongs to the humans who pretend they don't hear the sweet song of the flesh, and who scorn its promises of rapture behind masks of morality." The smile on his face grew wider, like a cat stretching in the sun, and his voice dropped a half tone: "And while the holy preach truth to human ears, demons whisper honesty to their hearts."

Though he tried to deny it, the statement grew icicles along Shiro's spine. What he said was true, and truth… has power. _Never listen to a demon's deceptive words_ is the most basic rule of exorcism: the most important rule of exorcism. Kids fifteen years old learnt it. Every exorcist in True Cross Order knew it. And yet, at the heart of that Order, one demon's words were allowed access to the ears of exorcists and Grigori and Pope.

A demon who had sworn himself to the human side.

A demon who was the Devil's flesh and blood.

A demon so exceptionally skilled with words that he had negotiated a contract with the Pope himself.

_Never listen to a demon's deceptive words_.

Dredged from the depths of Shiro's consciousness by the chill, Midori's words added to his discomfort: 'A demon who can fool the Pope is a good liar…'

"_Good with twisting words, yeah: but a liar…? He does protect Assiah from Satan…_"

'…and a bad thing to have around.'

"_He _has _the capacity to crush the Order, won't deny that, but… he could have done that long ago, if that's what he wanted… Tch, stuck between one demon's words and another's._" He smiled darkly at himself. Yeah, some exorcist _he_ was… He tapped his lighter thoughtfully against his knee. Mephisto was good with words, alright, but there were parts of what he'd just said that didn't add up. "Fancy words aside: wouldn't you go to Court for sinful and unnatural conduct if you 'sampled' all varieties of Assiah's riches?"

No, the impish look on his face said.

"Indeed, some of her fruits are forbidden me, but no rule without exception: the Vatican concerns itself with human virtue, not with demons' lack of such~" he said with a confident smirk, winking. "As long as I pick fruit from the right tree, no Pope or priest will slap my fingers."

No, he wouldn't go to Court: and if he did, he would waltz out of there with the same smug, confident look as he had waltzed in. Such was the power of a demon's tongue.

* * *

Shiro stayed with the wives and the children, silently hoping that if he didn't act as if that was weird they wouldn't think it was. The hotel room he was given was nice. As in _really_ nice. The tatami mats rustled softly under his bare feet, and there was even a small wooden table with everything needed for brewing tea. He pinched the futon in the closet and found it delightfully soft, and the view beyond the shoji doors was everything you could wish for – he even had a balcony!

Shiro didn't bother with hanging his clothes in the wardrobe, or unpacking anything except his razor and his toothbrush. It was only an overnight stay – if the meeting could reach a quick conclusion, at least. He assumed that if they kept disagreeing they would keep negotiating until they did agree on something, but he had no actual idea of how these things worked. Or how he was supposed to contribute.

"_Role-model, eh?_" He smiled at the bathroom mirror and dabbed after-shave over his now smooth jaw line. "_We're hypocrites both, my friend._"

When he put his razor back in the duffel, he was surprised to notice the barrel of his gun sticking out under the spare underwear. Had he really packed that, for a diplomatic meeting…? Scowling and thinking back on the morning didn't help any; he'd been too tired and stressed and disarranged to really remember what he'd done. Apparently, training had hardwired him into bringing along a weapon wherever he went.

* * *

Diplomacy is an art governed by many peculiar rules, but there was one that Shiro felt he could agree completely with: never make a decision on an empty stomach. And so, all the participants were treated to dine out in the open, with kaiseki made exclusively from ingredients produced in the valley. As is customary, the host and the highest ranking sat facing each other at the centre of the table, and ranks descended out towards the ends.

Shiro was seated at the far end; one step short of being placed among the kids in the nearby restaurant. To his left was a male exorcist he didn't know. In front of him…

"Long time no see, Bigmouth~" she grinned, seating herself in seiza position with her arms to her sides and knowing _full well _what that did with her boobs. "Doin' well, eh? Must a' kicked some serious butt at exams ta get yeself a place 'ere."

"Oh, I'm doing well. I'm here as 'role-model', can you imagine?" he pulled a superficial smile, trying his best to keep his eyes on her face and his emotions thoroughly under control.

"Nah, I think yer here fe' decoration", Kasumi jibed, trailing invisible glasses strings from her temples with a crooked grin.

"I like your decorations better", he said, letting his gaze drop for an instant in good company with a dirty smirk.

"Hoo~ someone hasn't been gettin' any in a while, eh? Attracting a different kind a' clientele wi' that finery, I'm guessin'~?"

And that… was why you never tried to battle Kasumi. No, he had been too busy to be "gettin' any": and if you counted a certain smug demon, he did attract a different kind of 'clientele'.

"I've been busy", he excused himself, thankful that she at least kept her voice low so that others might not hear. "Fancy meeting you here, though. Representing…?"

"The middle path", Kasumi said, smiling as she put her palms together, "of understanding an' respect. Spent some time with the Futotsukis, tried ta sow some seeds. Tanight we'll see if it did any good. An' how the 'ell are ye' a role-model…?"

"I'm turning out to be like the Futotsuki, basically." He could say it almost without effort: no cracks in the barrier, firm and solid as a rock wall… "Human, but have a good hand with demons." He nodded his head slightly towards the area of the table where important people sat. "Pheles requested that I tag along for that reason."

Kasumi's lips formed a quite inviting o-shape.

"The pendant ain't helping, then?"

"_Shizuku's sister alright…_" He drew a stabilizing breath. "I'm not allowed to wear it. I need to temper my mind and become my own shield." He nodded at the centre of the table again. "His idea."

"That's harsh", she deadpanned.

"He's a demon."

"Yeah, no shit…" She leaned forward to catch a better view of Mephisto down the table, and in doing so offered Shiro a most pleasant view of her… decorations. "Any idea why 'e's instructing ye an' not a Futotsuki?"

"Futotsuki-sensei hasn't been at school for a month-"

"I know: 'e's sittin' over there at the clan's side o' the table. There are other members at the Academy." Shizuku's sister, down to the way her eyes lost their mischievous glitter and went black and hard when she meant business. "Why would 'e take special interest in you?"

"Okay, look…" He was not about to have another fight. "_Not when there's so many pines in the woods_", he smiled despite himself. "Shizu-san and I haven't been on speaking terms for a while. We're locked at stalemate: he wants me to say what's 'off' about me, and I have nothing to tell him, so he's pissed. And honestly, it's so stupid it's unbelievable…" Here goes: sink or swim… "He's worried that I'm spending so much time with Pheles. And Pheles takes special interest in me 'cause he's my friend. I _have _issues with demons." He met her eyes briefly, hoping to see them a little more brown than black. "And he wants to help me become an exorcist that can fend for himself without pendants; his methods are a little harsh at times, but he means well."

Kasumi blinked. Twice. Thrice. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"Friend…? Shiro-kun, demons don't-" She halted her tongue, and a faint wrinkle nestled between her eyebrows. The tiny pixie of a woman looked him up and down pensively. "Role-model…" she repeated slowly to herself. "That's what it is…? A bond between demon an' human without sealing or binding?" The wrinkle deepened into a scowl, and there was no impish little pixie left. "Yer walkin' thin ice there. The ways o' the Futotsuki are risky at best, but what yer doin' is downright crazy. _Friend_…?"

"Someone's gotta be first", he said, hope wound so tight around his nervous heart he could barely breathe. "Believe it or not, but we get along well." He softened his features and poured some humour into what he hoped was a convincing speech: "Unless you count the smoking: he takes my lighter away every time I visit his office or mansion."

"An' what does 'e make ye do…?" she asked tentatively. Still making up her mind, still unsure… "Fe' training, and fe' other stuff. What does 'e say te you?"

"He makes me block demons out by will instead of by charms." This might actually work, this might actually work…! "And he gives me reading recommendations, 'cause he thinks I'm an uneducated monkey. We share jokes, he corrects my grammar – Shizu-san always did that, too – and we talk about all sorts of things." He tried another offensive towards humour: "Ladies, for one. He enjoys watching the Takarazuka Revue, apparently. He can recite whole scenes from _Berusayu no Bara_ by heart – in Japanese _and _French."

Kasumi hung onto his every word, lips slightly parted in a delicious look of concentration that made concentration on Shiro's part more difficult. And yet, the urges of his body were eerily powerless against the iron wall that enclosed his heart. As if the body wasn't part of him at all. As if anything he felt towards Kasumi was not part of him. The difference one crack in the barrier could make…

"Ye sound like friends", she said slowly. "That it's never happened before doesn't mean it's impossible, I s'pose…" A thin smile touched her lips. "If anyone can befriend a demon, it's a swaggering big-mouth like you. S'long s'ye keep ye wits about… ye gotta promise me ye break it off if 'e starts, ye know", she arced an eyebrow in Mephisto's direction, "acting demon. Walkin' the middle path…" It was barely visible, but her smile stretched a liiiittle wider – and Shiro's breathing came a little easier. "Maybe ye're a role-model, maybe ye're an idiot." The mischievous spark flickered to life in her eyes. "Maybe ye'll show us an entirely different path ta walk." At the sound of a deep voice saying 'dozo', they both reached for their teacups and raised them in a welcoming toast. "Te you two little lovebirds", she snickered, and drank.

Being seated with Kasumi was a blessing. Never a dull moment with that mischievous tomboy; and Shiro could've sworn the exorcists on their respective sides scooted imperceptibly away from them as their conversation progressed. Kasumi was bold. Shameless. Impish. Absolutely lovely.

Word reached them during lunch that unrest had broken out in parts of the Futotsuki territory, and that the meeting would have to be postponed until tomorrow when the last envoys could cut loose. Kasumi formed part of the little team that would make the trip over there to help calm things down, saying she would see him again at the meeting.

"I'll help ye talk Shizzy straight", she ensured as she was preparing to leave. "I'll be headin' down that direction when the meeting's finished, so gimme a few days an' I'll be there."

"You could catch a ride with us", he suggested, and received that shrewd smile of hers. As if she knew something he didn't - like Midori.

"Ain't the pilgrim way, Shiro-kun. Ye walk ye' path with yer own feet, so ye know every puddle an' pebble along the way."

He had to give it a moment, but nodded at her words.

"You're so much like each other. Pilgrims that sound like scholars…"

"S' the puddles an' pebbles", she smiled, winked, and stalked after the rest of the team.

* * *

**A/N:**

…I had to sort this out for myself. ^_^' If Mephisto is as old-school as he is with greed, gluttony, vanity, pride, and so on, I don't think it would be fair to exclude lust from the party. And I seriously doubt he's been celibate during his 200 years' service in the Vatican… but how does the Vatican handle that? Could they actually condone that a demon sleeps around with their emblem on his chest? Not really… and that's where Diplomacy steps in, dragging Compromise by the hand~

So, I imagine they let him do as he pleases (with whoever he pleases), as long as he does it with demons. After all, the Order's purpose is to protect humans, not teach demons morality.

Pedantic Dimwit: "But demons use _human _bodies to commit their heinous acts of debau-"

*clonk*

Pragmatic Dimwit: "That one…? No no no, just some raving cuckoo from Insomniac Dimwit's department, you don't wanna listen to that~" |-3 *hands crowbar back to Mephisto*


	11. 63: The not-date that sort of was?

**A/N: ...and a snipped of poetry designed to look like something out of Göthe's ****_Faust. _****That's the only part  
of this I can claim to own. =P**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Futotsuki-sensei had asked them to walk with him after lunch and asked – oh had he asked! The conflict had aged the poor man, but he wanted to know everything that had happened at the Academy since he had left. His questions were directed as much to Mephisto as to Shiro, and while one answered the ones concerning the state of the school and the personnel, the other filled him in on the students' progress and pranks.

"She and Midori-chan are doing fine", Shiro replied, although Futotsuki-sensei had only asked about Sen.

"Oh? Well, you are a clever young man, Fujimoto-kun, so it's no surprise you noticed my niece's affections."

Mephisto politely turned away to blow his nose. In May. With the warmth of the day still lingering in the afternoon sun. The unseasonal cold also seemed to have caused him some blockage in his throat. Shiro silently wished it would choke him.

"And how is the young Todo doing as teacher?"

"He is industrious."

"He's boring."

Futotsuki-sensei's countenance crinkled in merriment.

"Well, well; true both, I dare say. It takes passion to teach, and passion I'm afraid I haven't seen in that young man for years. He's a fine exorcist, though… I'm sorry to hear of the accident", he said in his deep, sombre voice. "Word reached us that demons had slipped through the barrier and that lives had been lost, but the details went missing on the way. What happened?"

"A most sad and unexpected tragedy", Mephisto said softly, seemingly more attentive of the irises that held the same colour as the fodder of his cape. "A group of students wilfully dismantled wards in the barrier and fell victim to the demons that got through. Thankfully they were the only ones, plus one guard that tried to prevent them. As for why they did this, I'm afraid we will never know."

Smooth words, without any hint of hesitation or conscience behind… Under different circumstances, Shiro might have felt a twinge of guilt: but his heart was cold and indifferent to Mephisto's lies.

"So sad, so sad." The old teacher shook his head. "And now this. Brother disowning brother, mother and daughter at each other's throats… I hope you can resolve this at tomorrow's meeting, Sir Pheles. It breaks my heart to see my people like this. And you know that I…" Futotsuki-sensei's voice faltered, and his years wore heavy on his shoulders. "If it comes to fighting between the Order and the Futotsuki, I don't know which side to take. I beg of you, Sir Pheles; if it comes to that, please don't order me to oppose my own people."

"There is always two sides in a battle." Mephisto's interest now lay with the small shrine snuggled against the trunk of an ages-old ginkgo. "And there are times when belonging to neither might cost you more than choosing one. I will not ask you to fight, Itsuhito-san: but if you do fight, you fight for me."

"Yes… Yes; thank you. Thank you for your time, Sir Pheles. I will need my strength tomorrow, so I bid you a pleasant evening. And you, Fujimoto-kun." He bowed, showing how far up the grey had crept from his temples, and left them on the walkway where it made a respectful bend around the ginkgo, as if the tree's growth had slowly forced worshippers to alter their path.

"…any idea how things will go tomorrow?" Shiro probed, following as Mephisto kept trailing the path.

"Why, isn't it more exciting to wait and see~? I have a feeling that-" His ears twitched apprehensively, and the two men turned simultaneously to find that Futotsuki-sensei had turned around.

"Pardon me, Fujimoto-kun, my mind has been greatly occupied lately: Sen asked me to say happy birthday from her and Midori-chan", he said with a gentle smile.

Shiro managed not to close his eyes and groan, thanked Futotsuki-sensei, and asked him to pass his thanks to Sen and Midori.

"Today, is it?" Mephisto hummed. "Oya oya, happy bi-"

"Once is enough", Shiro cut off, shoving his hands back in his pockets after bidding his teacher goodbye.

"What kind of person are you, who don't appreciate birthdays?" Mephisto sounded like this was not only impossible, but downright affronting. "Presents and games and sweets, merry times and celebration – what lacklustre mind doesn't find that enjoyable?"

"No, I like parties; I just don't like birthday parties." Rather, he didn't like his own birthday parties: several of them spent at an orphanage tend to dim the magic shimmer. "If you're gonna celebrate, at least celebrate something sensible. I mean, it's supposed to be some kind of achievement to be born? Or to grow older?"

"For you, that last one is quite the achievement."

"Tch…" He smiled crookedly up at the darkening sky. "Oh well, you're right. And here I thought going away on business would keep people from noticing… Well, nothing out of the ordinary anyway. A stroll at the night market is my usual way of celebrating, and this ain't far from it."

"Oh~?" Shiro tensed at his tone; mostly because anything that made Mephisto happy usually did so at the expense of his own happiness. "I know the perfect thing for you, then~"

"Oi, what are you-"

Mephisto poofed them both away from the gravel path and into… a forest. An old, old forest, the kind where the trees have grown bitter and selfish and choke life from the forest floor with their heavy branches. Only things that thrive in darkness live there, among the shed life of leaves and needles: moss that licks the moisture off gnarly roots, and lichens that bleed ashen eruptions on wood and rock. Despite the warmth of the season, Shiro felt a chill slither down his spine. Forests weren't that quiet, not in May when birds should be singing like there's no tomorrow. Though surrounded by growing things, the forest around him didn't feel alive.

"Can't have you going like that…" Mephisto snapped his fingers again, and Shiro's school uniform disappeared in favour of a white yukata with pink cherry blossoms: Mephisto's uniform was replaced with a pale pink kimono with lavish peonies. "Hmm, no." He snapped his fingers again, and Shiro found himself in a black yukata with red obi and bright azaleas.

"Going like what to where? Where are we?"

"Too eye-catching." Mephisto snapped his fingers a third time, and Shiro was robed in an azure yukata with cranes. "Too cold nuances." A snap and a poof, and this time the yukata was pale yellow with a reddish pattern of koi.

"I said 'where are we?'"

"Clashes with your eyes." Poof, and his clothes were wine red, almost mauve, with golden chrysanthemum flowers. "Too flashy."

"Oi, are you even listening?"

"Of course not."

Of course not. Shiro surrendered. It was the only thing to do when Mephisto was absorbed in something; even something as silly as playing dress-up.

Shiro's clothes stopped changing once he'd gotten into a yukata in nuances fading from deep lavender to white, with white Wisteria flowing below the obi: but Mephisto kept snapping his fingers. And looked more and more annoyed.

"What's taking you so long?" he asked, absentmindedly picking his ear with his little finger.

"That hair of yours", the demon grumbled and watched, again, how Shiro's hair reverted back to its amorphous state like a released spring. "It's simply not emendable."

Shiro chuckled and ran a hand through the unkempt haystack on his head.

"The hair that defeated the King of Time. How's that on your record?"

"It's not hair, it's a bird's nest", he said dryly, brushing his fingers over the greyish tips in a dismissive manner. "Your constant bleaching doesn't exactly improve the quality of it."

"Oh, and the guy who favours the colour scheme of an eggplant should give advice on hair-care?"

There was a moment's confused silence as Mephisto pieced together the message.

"…are you implying that would I dye my hair?" he asked with a face of utter disbelief.

Shiro raised his eyebrows at him.

"Are _you _implying that _that _is your natural hair colour?"

Mephisto's eyebrows rose, too: and settled in that disgruntled inrun formation over his drooping eyes.

"That you even doubt it is offensive – of course it is! There is no way one could look this dashing unless born to it", he declared, splaying his clawed fingers over the chest of the kimono.

Shiro failed to choke a bout of laughter. Actually, he didn't even try.

"Oh, of course, you're a natural purplette…!"

"I am", the demon maintained in offended tones. "Look at my claws: same proteins, same colour."

He didn't really care – Mephisto might have naturally purple-greenish hair, or he might not. What mattered was his abhorred look when Shiro explained the dark purple claws with nail varnish.

"What an utter and unbelievable monkey you are", he frowned. "Expecting you to behave is likely a guarantee for disappointment, so if you settle for staying out of trouble that will do. Don't put anything in your mouth unless absolutely certain what it is, don't go saying aloud that you are an exorcist; and don't let slip of your focus. This will be good exercise for you."

"Then maybe you can tell me where we're going?" Shiro tugged at the yukata, which was probably one of female cut since it showed more of his legs than he was used to or comfortable with.

"Hyakki Yagyou~!" Mephisto announced with a beaming smile and spread his arms like a magician about to present his next performance. "The demons' parade! It is of earthly wonders still the strangest, and thus in equal measure craved and cursed; whether from man- or demonkin thou rangest, you'll find a brew to slake your thirst~ Your heart's desire shall not, I pledge, evade thee, for every soul can have its wishes' worth, the night I can most proudly claim to emcee; the night when heaven high", he reached up and splayed his fingers as if to pluck down a star, "is hell on earth~" The hand descended with a flourish to rest at his abdomen, and with a devilish smirk he bowed the way they once did at European courts. "So let's be on our way~"

"…I'm not sure I can walk", Shiro confessed bluntly, following stiffly on his geta.

"Quite the expert on ruining moods, aren't you?" Mephisto sighed, and managed to convey an impressive amount of disdain just by Looking at him. "My my, like a newborn deer…"

"Well, sorry, I haven't walked in heels as much as you have", he snorted, carefully navigating across the treacherous roots – though inwardly, he grinned. "_Always a pleasure to ruin your moods, Princess._" Still, if that was improvised verse, he had to admit that Mephisto did have a talent for- "…I'd rather trip and knock a tooth out, thank you very much", he said as the demon, in the spirit of a true gentleman, offered his arm for support.

* * *

Nestled securely like a secret whispered between lovers, the depression hid behind thick foliage of evergreens and lush maples, betrayed only by the drifting lantern lights. Once out in the open, Shiro realized it wasn't lanterns: it was onibi, thousands of them swarming like fireflies in the dusk. And in the pale, rippling light bloomed a strange flower indeed.

It was the dilapidated skeleton of dead dreams: it was the tangled seed of miracles holding its breath. It was as though the bones of the earth had broken and pushed through her skin, coaxed out of her dark flesh to draw nourishment from the hopes and nightmares of the living. Of earthly wonders still the strangest…

The light of the onibi melted over pillars and spikes that impaled the sky in angles askew. The soil grew winding buildings on teetering legs, and three-way archways with no sense of direction. Above, the air hung low with the weight of a hundred dishes cooking, a thousand voices speaking, and demon fireballs that chased each other amongst the banners and flower vines. All around and everywhere, from every twisted nook and crevice, the steady light of lanterns trickled colourful shadows of bypasses onto the streets. The lanterns were the only ordinary thing Shiro could spot there: they looked terribly out of place.

It was just like the night market in True Cross Town on a bustling summer evening, and nothing like it at all. Nothing… at all…

Shiro liked night markets for the anonymity: for the tranquil feeling of being just another person in the crowd, comfortably surrounded by people who happily minded their own business and let him mind his. That… was not going to be the case at the demons' parade.

"Greetings and welcome, your highness."

"Welcome, your highness."

"Most honoured, your highness."

…like watching the waves of the ocean still their restless caravans…

Horned heads, scaly heads, furry heads: like a rice field in the wind, they bent as demons of all shapes and kinds bowed deep before them. Conversation dropped to murmured greetings, and merry music from further away sung jarringly loud in the solemn atmosphere. Vendors left their stands to offer gifts, runners came from food carts to deliver treats, tumbling imps that chased each other underfoot came to a dead stop… and inwardly, Shiro squirmed. Formality had never been his cup of tea. He didn't like acting formal, and apparently he was just as uncomfortable with being acted formal towards; even if it wasn't actually him they were bowing to.

"_He must be used to this…_"

But as Shiro glanced at Mephisto, he was forced to take back his words. No, Mephisto wasn't used to this: he was born to this. Born and bred to be the Crown Prince of Gehenna; and here, amongst his own kind, everyone knew that. Here, he was royalty; and his flamboyant mannerisms looked perfectly normal.

"_Everything is relative, huh…_"

Still, that it could be so _very _different… His clownish flourishes didn't look clownish, his ridiculous swagger didn't look ridiculous, and his stupid, self-important smirk didn't look stupid.

He looked like a king.

"_Wonder what they make of me, then? Doesn't it look strange for a demon like him to show up with a human…?_"

Oh, he got an explanation quick enough. All people of royal lineage have servants; and guess who got to be porter for the braided basket with the ever- increasing pile of… things. Most of the offerings looked like food, some of them looked like dried roots; some of them were odd, disc-like things that could've been biscuits and could've been thin clam shells in strange colours.

"What are these?" he asked as they strolled leisurely among the market rows and caused demons to stop and bow.

"Oh, I like those~" Mephisto plucked the shell-like object out of his hand and ate with a satisfied purr, dangling a skewer with caramelized plums in his other hand. "Very tasty. Not for humans, though."

There were a lot of things labelled "not for humans". There were a lot of things Shiro didn't want to have any deeper knowledge of anyway, but some things he really did want to try: like Hoshi-no-Tama. It wasn't actually the kitsune's sphere you were trying to capture, but if you managed to snatch the ball from behind the kitsune guard before the hourglass was emptied you were granted a small wish. Many demons gave it a go, but as long as Shiro and Mephisto stayed to watch none even got near the prize.

A less physical game, that he actually proved to have some aptitude for, was Pea Shooting, or Tsurube-otoshi. The rules were as simple as they come: load the reed pipe with a dried pea, and hit the targets. The targets, however, were dropped randomly from the shadows of the stand's ceiling by the jorougumo who controlled it all with her webs. He left her stand with a smug smile and fairly large spindle of fine spider thread.

He felt it constantly; the demons around him. Like a barely noticeable breeze against his skin, their presences immersed him but flowed past him. And that "flowing past"… Tentatively, Shiro tried opening his heart a crack: just a little, just enough to feel the thrill tickling his senses. Oh yes. The demons didn't bother looking at him any more than they did before, and he could _feel_: feel the adventure rise like carbonic acid in his veins, feel his chest swell with the smells of the unknown. He was at the demons' parade, a place humans sometimes visited but seldom lived to describe, and the mere thought made his hairs stand delightfully on end.

* * *

"Greetings, your highness."

Greetings indeed.

Shiro had to make an effort not to let slip of his heart. Most of the demons were hideous, or looked like disfigured animals. Not this one. A harionna, a flytrap for human men, bowed to them; waves of her lethal hair, braided and threaded with beads for the occasion, gushed over her shoulders as she did.

"Please, accept our gift." She hefted a small girl – her daughter, from the looks of it – and lifted her up eye-level with Mephisto.

Shiro thought for an instant that she was offering him the _girl_ in accordance with some strange demon custom, until he saw the little one gently gather purple-green hair to the side and fasten it with a comb.

"You look very nice, your highness", she said in a voice like windblown grains of sand whispering over dunes, fidgeting shyly with the beads threaded into her own hair.

"So do you, little one." And to Shiro's great surprise, Mephisto plucked off one of the caramelized plums and gave to the girl. Mother and daughter bid him a good evening and bowed deep.

"How do I look~?" he asked as they continued their slow stroll through the market.

Oh, what to say…? Peony kimono, purple hair, a comb decorated with seashells arranged in the shape of cherry blossoms…

"Like a half-starved comfort woman", he said before he could think, and cringed. "Shit, will they lynch me for saying something like that…?"

When in Rome, do as the Romans do: and most importantly, don't go calling Caesar a prostitute. But no demon within earshot paid any mind, and Mephisto shook his head through a mouthful of sweets.

"A demon who can't defend his own honour has no honour to defend. Knowing that you are romantically challenged I shall assume you have a hard time expressing your affection in proper ways."

"Oi, are those big ears just for decora- Hold a sec, it's falling off." Shiro saved the seashell comb as it fell… and realized he was in over his head. In more than one way. "_Right: how the hell do you do this?_"

Because giving a hair decoration to a guy is like putting a tatting shuttle in the hands of a blacksmith.

The interesting thing about guys is that no matter what you put in their hands, they will most likely give it a try: maybe because it stings to admit incompetence, and maybe because incompetence itself is a quality guys are blissfully unaware of. Against better knowledge, Shiro decided to pick up the proverbial glove: he put the basket down, and reached up.

"It would be easier if you weren't so damn tall…" Shiro struggled to keep his balance on the wobbly toes of the geta. Would've been neat to stumble and fall on him now, wouldn't it? Like some clueless couple-to-be in shoujo manga… "You wearing geta is just ridiculous, you know that? You gotta be two meters even without them."

"One ninety-five", he corrected and leaned forward to enable him to reach. "It's custom to wear them with traditional garments; as a native, you ought to know."

"As a native, I can inform you that's a woman's kimono."

"I am well aware of that, actually." Seeing the look that Shiro didn't bother concealing, the demon smiled. "Male, female – what does that matter? I pick clothes that look good on me; an approach that would benefit you too, my friend. Winning a woman's heart is much easier if you take care to present yourself properly. It's a downright disgrace to neglect fine raw material, and given your general aptitude for courtship-"

"You want this in your hair or in your eye?" Shiro snorted, brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to figure out what the demon girl had done to fasten the comb. "_I'll be damned, it looks like he actually has that hair colour._" Honestly, like an eggplant… "There's nothing wrong with my 'aptitude', I just have a knack for picking the wrong girls."

"An impressive such – ever thought of trying your luck with men instead?"

"Ever thought of trying your luck with someone as depraved as you?" he returned. "Wasn't that why you came here? There, I think I fixed it."

"This is a place for pleasures of all kinds, each with its own allure", he smiled, straightening up and biting off another crinkly plum. "Take a look around and see what suits your palate, birthday-boy."

* * *

Mephisto had, it would seem, tried every snack in existence at least four times.

"These are made of fermented grain, these are wild honey and crushed hazelnuts; those over there are pieces of honeycomb filled with goji berries and coated in ginkgo resin, and those gooseberry shortcrust tarts are extremely savoury…" He used his plum skewer to point to this-thing-and-that on the counter of a stand that also seemed to sell gelatinized sea slugs artfully wrapped in cobweb. "And if you are a little less of a sweet-eater, these-"

Shiro deftly pulled a caramelized plum off the skewer.

"But those are my favourites!"

"You eat all that yourself and you'll get fat", he grinned and plopped the sticky, aromatic treat into his mouth. After all, what suited his palate best was Mephisto's irritated face…

…ngh…

"Guaaaaah! Ah, ng-huerh ptweh oh god it _burns_!"

He breathed fire – or, it felt like he did. He couldn't tell, as the fumes that rose up from his oral cavity burnt tears from his eyes. And it didn't stop. No amount of swallowing, spitting, cursing or wheezing did anything to quench the inferno.

"Tsk tsk, what a mouth you've got", the demon snickered, face melting from false sulk to a mean smirk. He wasn't the only one: all around, demons cracked up at the sight of the human boy that was gagging and spitting. "Where's that flask of holy water you keep around~?"

Realisation hit Shiro's furiously blushing face. This was for the tea incident…? No, he _couldn't _have…

"You could _not _know I would-ng-hauhh… that I would eat that!"

He should control himself better, _had to _control himself better, but the laughing throng of demons made a vein pulse at his temple.

"Of course I could~ Know your enemy, and you can predict his actions in any given situation: predict your enemy's actions, and you can create situations to lead him wherever you like."

Like wagging a skewer around and asking if there was any food he would like to try, sneaky son of a…!

Shiro struggled to breathe as slowly as possible: even the gentle stream of air was oil on the fire in his throat. He could eat peppers and he could eat wasabi, no problem; but _that_…!

"Damn you to hell and beyond, what the fuck was that?!" he wheezed, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"I believe humans call it Devil's Tongue." He twirled the skewer between his fingers with a pleasant smile. "Can't imagine why~"

* * *

**A/N:**

**Onibi**– demon fireballs.

**Obi** – the sash worn around the waist with kimonos. (yes, you probably know already)

**Harionna** – a beautiful female demon with long, breathtaking hair where each hair is tipped with a barb.

**Devil's Tongue** – the world's seventh hottest pepper. I've given Mephisto's cooking some thought, and I don't he's that poor a chef – at least not by  
Gehenna standards. I think he just likes extremely spicy food… Suppose you could take it for a little simile, if you like: don't make the mistake of trusting  
the sweetness of a devil's tongue, for it will burn you. =P

**Shiro's birthday** is the 10th of May. I mentioned that the meeting would be on that date in ch 46, hoping that you would have forgotten about that  
by now (_he_ had)... =P


	12. 64: The Lion, the Dance and the Peony

**A/N: With this it seems like I paraphrased an old Japanese folk tale without even knowing it existed. I discovered it afterwards. =P**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

The music grew louder, and the bustling rivers from the streets fanned out into a delta embracing a small lake. Like a giant clam lifted from the ocean floor by a storm, a courtyard floated in the middle of it; brightly coloured rice paper lanterns threw their light at the reflections of the stars, and a beautiful arcade bridge arched its back on spindly legs from shore to courtyard. Once on it, Shiro realized it wasn't an arcade: vines and flowers had grown into a canopy so dense that not a single drop of rain would get through in a downpour.

"Wow, are those…?"

"Aosaginohi", Mephisto confirmed, throwing an eye at the ghostly herons that shone blue light over the still, black waters beneath the bridge. "Want to try eating one? I hear it makes bodily fluids glow blue for a week."

"I think I've learnt not to eat anything from this place, thank you very much."

"That I doubt: I think the matter is that you _can't _eat anything", the demon hummed merrily in his lilting cadence. "You're still crying."

"I'm not crying." Irritably, he wiped moisture from his eye with the back of his hand. "My eyeballs are sizzling in their sockets from the fumes of that _torture fruit_."

"Devil's Tongue", he corrected politely. "And how is _your _tongue?"

"Insensitive and black and shrivelled-up like your heart."

"Is that so~? Doesn't sound any different from usual. Quid pro quo, then~?" he snickered, glancing down at him from the corner of his eye with a smile that made Shiro want to dunk his head in a baptismal font.

"Like hell it is: _your _body regenerates."

"So does yours, just slower~"

"Tch, bite me…"

Mephisto's grin widened to bare pearl-white fangs, and the forest green eyes Considered.

"I know what you're thinking", Shiro said in level tones, selecting a skewer with chicken hearts to point at the smug face, "and you will get this up your nose if you do anything more than think."

"And you wonder why you have no luck with women, you uncivilized animal…?"

Out in the courtyard… Shiro wasn't sure what it was. It combined the slow, ritual feeling of fan dancing with the lissom, fluent grace he'd never been able to copy from Mephisto's swordsmanship. The dancing demons wove intricate patterns back and forth, tapping feet and claws to the music and making the most of their extravagantly beautiful clothing. Merry, rotund demons that Shiro realized must be tanuki formed a peculiar orchestra in a spectacular whelk-shell gazebo: the bamboo flutes grew bent, the shamisens' necks lengthened and shortened to accommodate the tune, furry bellies were used as drums, and in place of bells they jostled their big bellies to produce a muffled, jingling sound.

"No way." Shiro's eyebrows rose high as he inspected the musicians. "They really _can _use their bellies as drums?" His eyebrows came back down, furrowing as he tilted his head to the side. "But… I don't get how they make them ring and jingle like that. They eat rocks…?"

"Bellies are only for drumming: those aren't their bellies."

Judging from a second glance, no. Those were not bellies.

"…couldn't you just have lied and spared my brain that knowledge?" he groaned and covered his eyes with his free hand. "Now I'm stuck with images of Ryuuji-san that I really don't want."

"Hardly my problem~ 'The only way to get rid of temptation is to give in to it', as Wilde put it. And since it is my sole opportunity to do so, I intend to give in to every single one."

"And you've got plenty of bad fruit to pick from", Shiro observed, looking out over the billowing ocean of brightly-coloured fabric. "Well, go knock yourself out, then."

"Oh, I will~ Shall we…?"

Shiro stared at him as if asked if he'd like another Devil's Tongue. What? Did he…? No, he probably just… But he did look like…

After several minutes of confusion, clarity, new depths of bemusement, and a moment's pondering if Belial really knew what he was talking about, Shiro managed one stunningly eloquent sentence:

"I don't dance."

"Fufufufu, the lion roars in the face of danger but trembles at the thought of a mere dance? Aren't you sweet~" the demon snickered, eyes aglow with flirtatious mischief in the lantern light. "Very well, a shy flower is lovely as any other, but grows best in the shade." The tip of the now bare skewer landed light reproach on Shiro's nose. "Stay out of trouble, little lion. There are bigger cats than you out hunting tonight."

"_And he's one of them…_" Shiro thought. Watching Mephisto swagger out among the dancers, his lips quirked into an amused smile. "_Sure, if you've got a pink limo and a mansion with better view than Tokyo Tower you can walk like that. You're the King of Foppishness alright…_"

Chuckling at his bizarre friend, he shuffled over to the wooden railing that surrounded the dancing courtyard. No need to ask him to stay out of trouble: this was the demons' parade, and if he focused on anything else than keeping his heart closed he would become the proverbial rabbit in the fox den. Still, it had gone smoother than he'd thought. He felt that he was indeed immersed in demons, but none paid him any mind. Not even when he kept that crack open.

Shiro put the basket on the boards, slipped off the troublesome sandals and perched himself on the railing. It was a beautiful May night, couldn't deny that. A perfect night for going to the market – and what a market it had been…!

"_Too bad he poofed away my smokes…_"

However, among the gifts in the basket were an elegant, long-necked pipe, and dried tobacco. Shiro had already stuffed the pipe and lit it from a lantern when he realized it might not be human-friendly tobacco. Hadn't learnt anything, had he?

"_I hate it when he's right…_" He _did _remember the Devil's Tongue… and the tea… and he really shouldn't smoke this… but the evening called for a smoke, would be _perfected _by a smoke, and this seemed to be the only one he would get. With great caution, he puffed at the slender mouthpiece. "_I could be smoking buffalo dung for all I know. That thing completely killed off my taste buds…_"

After a while of no ill effects he concluded that demons, having the sensitive noses they had, didn't smoke real tobacco. Shiro drew a full breath, smiling at the tendrils that wound into the sky and bathed in colour from the lanterns. He tapped his bare foot to the beat of the belly-drums and let his thoughts drift with the twisting smoke. The music and the sounds of chirping frogs in the night wrapped around him like a good friend laying an arm around his shoulders, and he swayed slightly from side to side in the warm evening. The dancers circled back and forth hypnotically, broke pairs, formed new ones… they danced like Mephisto talked; smooth and fluent… flourishing, with that odd, archaic cadence that was somehow also playful…

"_Whoa…!_" Shiro grabbed onto the railing at the sudden tremor. Earthquake…? No, no one else reacted to it…

A short distance away, a couple of dancers – a blue-skinned woman with hair like the foam atop raging waves, and a half-man half-goat whose horns were hung with glittering jewellery – had missed the bridge and crashed into the railing beside it. They seemed too busy with each other to notice, however…

Shiro turned his eyes back to the courtyard with a slight blush, and was effectively reminded what dance really is.

Humans aren't particularly honest about themselves. They like calling dance 'culture', or 'entertainment' – or 'art', if they want to be exceptionally straitlaced about it. In any other animal species, 'dance' means courtship. Dance was the language of love before thought gave shape to word, the burning poetry of the body used to woo a partner since time immemorial. Humans may not acknowledge that, but demons do.

Shiro's gaze hit the wooden floorboards, feeling as though his intestines had been strung from his pelvis to his sternum and strummed violently with a pick. Sure, he knew Mephisto had a taste in men: that didn't mean he ever wanted to see him with one.

Shiro slipped back into his sandals, fumbled to pick up the basket without the yukata showing too much skin, cursing under his breath as he tried to expel the images from his memory. Indecent, filthy, disgusting…! Mephisto hadn't just _kissed_ a man, no; that _look _on his face as he did was debauchery incarnate, and how absolutely _shamelessly _he had snaked his arm around the guy's waist…!

And when they would pass over that bridge to go indulge in their perverted pleasures, Shiro did _not _want to sit nearby. He clip-clopped over the wooden structure as fast as the stupid geta would allow.

"_Disgusting demon…_" His cheeks were probably redder than when he'd walked in on Midori and Sen, dammit. That hadn't been half as bad. Two girls together was kinda… hot. This was just wrong. Horribly wrong. "_Couldn't they at least have left _before _they started… doing things like that…_" Could've been worse: at least they had still had clothes on… "_Though he already had the obi slung around the guy's neck…_"

* * *

Shiro strode the market streets aimlessly, caring only to be far away from anything Mephisto might be doing right now. He tried calming himself down by telling himself he should have expected it. He _knew _Mephisto didn't care whether he slept with women or with men. He _knew _they had gone to the dancing court so he could pick a bedmate. He _knew _he should be more in control of his emotions, for the demons he stalked past turned their heads (in case such existed) after him.

"_Exercise, dammit…_" Quell the fire, gather yourself up behind iron bars… "_It's a test, and you can't afford to fail it…_"

It was downright creepy. None of the demons had paid him any mind before, but now he felt eyes touch him wherever he went. And all his weapons and defences had been poofed away along with his uniform. A sitting duck. A rabbit in a fox den.

"_Relax._" Pff, quite the contradiction to what he was forcing his mind to do. "_Some of them can probably smell fear. I just have to play it cool and act as if I have every right in the world to be here._" He walked as casually as he possibly could, and cast glances left and right for branching paths and alleyways that would allow him to smoothly turn back to the lake and the safety of Mephisto's royal blood. If he was still there.

Shiro was silently cursing himself for leaving when he realised someone was addressing him: a walking treasure chest. The heavy bracelets of gold was the first thing that caught one's eye; second were the gems that littered the many necklaces adorning him from collarbone to waist; and third… third you thought he wore a skin-tight suit of copper under all the glitter, but that turned out to be his actual skin.

"May I have one?" the demon repeated, looking at him with yellow eyes as hard as the diamonds in his earlobes.

"Help yourself", he said, holding forth the basket with treats. Mephisto wouldn't notice if one or two was missing: and Shiro didn't know if a lone human could deny a demon anything here without getting into serious trouble.

"Where are you headed at such pace, boy?"

That was a _very _strange accent he had, but none that Shiro could place. His voice sounded… metallic. Like polished bronze. Like something smooth and hard and shiny.

"To the lake." Could work… maybe… "But I think I might have lost my way."

"You certainly have." A set of sharp teeth glinted in the smile. "The lake is this way." He turned towards the lake and motioned for Shiro to follow. "Delivering treats for the dancers, are you?"

"_He thinks I'm a delivery boy? Works as a cover, I suppose._" He righted the basket with his other hand, and followed. "Yes. I heard Prince Samael was there, and he's- his highness is supposed to be quite fond of sweets."

To his surprise, the demon winced. He might not have noticed, if the light hadn't jerked suddenly in all his bracelets and necklaces.

"Word has it his highness is here tonight, yes."

Hadn't thought about it before, but now that he did… 'his highness' this, 'his highness' that, 'his highness the Crown Prince'… Behind the bars of Shiro's closed heart, curiosity stirred.

"I'm not that familiar with demon customs, but is it wrong to call somebody royal by name?"

"There is nothing wrong at all in addressing members of the royal family by name, so long as proper respect is shown", the sleek metal-voice said. "We do, however, seldom call the Crown Prince by name."

"'cause he's Crown Prince, or…?"

"An inquisitive mind you have~ Alas, I am a child in comparison to the age of that custom, and I know not its origins. I only know that one does not speak his highness' name aloud." His large lips pulled into a thin smile. "You have a keen interest in the ways of demons, yes? I can teach you all you want to know."

Had Shiro's attention not been occupied by how the onibi light gave the demon's copper skin the sheen of real copper, he might have noticed the hungry gleam in the diamond eyes.

"That's nice, but I think I'll pa- decline. I'm just a temporary visitor here, I'll be leaving soon." He steeled his heart a little more, just to be safe if that statement didn't go down well…

"Why~? You are young, and so is the night – it might be once a month for us, but once in a lifetime for you. Could you really let such an opportunity slip…?"

He felt it skirt his defences, tease his heart with touches that couldn't quite reach. Not that it needed to reach. He was unarmed. Easy prey.

"_Dammit, why did I walk off?_" Stall, that was the only thing he could do: stall until they reached the lake. It shouldn't be far now. Mephisto _had_ to be there; the demon would never believe him if he said he was Prince Samael's friend… "Well, we've got time until I get to the dance." Some question, any question off the top of his head… "Why is it that demons don't care whether it's men or women they sleep with?" Great. Great question. "_Good job, self…_"

It wasn't that far-fetched an association, but it wasn't a topic he wanted to discuss with any other demon than Mephisto. You never knew whose menu you were on.

"It is in the very core of every body to want another: it needs not the mind's opinion of gender, or the laws imposed by man." Metallic words, seductive words: words that curled around his neck like the coils of a boa… "It cares only for the touch of living flesh… and the sweet surge when life departs it at the highest moment…"

Shit, the demon was leaning in, pulling him by the obi…!

"I think that's all the information I need: no practical demonstrations, thank you. Oi...!"

Out of the folds of time, a slender, towering shape appeared behind the demon.

"I believe you have something that's mine~?"

...and though it was the other demon he should have been afraid of, it was Mephisto that made Shiro's skin crawl. Perfectly polite and perfectly menacing: that was the same tone he had used when he told him of the imprint. The copper-skinned demon became, for an instant, stiff and unliving as a temple statue.

"A thousand apologies, your highness", he said, bowing to him. "I did not know he belonged to your highness, else I would never have approached him."

"I trust not." He gave Shiro a heavy-lidded gaze up and down. "It would seem no harm has befallen him: quid… pro… quo~" he told the demon softly, wearing a smile that was thin and sharp as an assassin's poison needle.

"Thank you, you highness", the demon said with the quivering trace of a scrape in his metallic voice, and left hurriedly. When he did, Shiro blinked dizzily as orientation he didn't know he'd lost spun back in gear. They hadn't been headed for the lake, that was just illusion. They had been headed someplace entirely different.

"…what the hell?" Shiro grimaced, though inwardly he breathed a sigh of relief. "_Yours? _I'm not your pet, you know."

"Whose would you rather be, then~?" he inquired sweetly, tilting his head to the side with a honeyed smile. "That grootslang's? The daitengu's? Take your pick: there are plenty here who would be happy to claim a human without master."

Shiro got the hint: demon society, demon rules. Didn't make it any easier to squeeze out a 'fine'.

"But it's only tonight", he pointed out as they strolled side-by-side back to the lake, to watch the grand finale of the parade. "And only because it's necessa- just _what _do you think you're doing?" he snapped when Mephisto's thin arm snaked around his waist.

"Making sure other demons don't make the same mistake." He glanced down at him with a smirk that made no secret of how much he was enjoying this. "In your own words: tonight, you're mine~"

Shiro's face pulled in all possible directions. Oh, he could see the sense in it, the _logic _in it; and he saw exactly how Mephisto twisted that to his advantage.

"You make that sound so wrong I don't even know where to start…"

"You can start with not tripping over your own feet. It's very inelegant."

Mephisto's disturbance did make Shiro even more unsteady on the geta. He cursed under his breath and tried not to reflect on the situation. Tried not to remember that the last guy Mephisto had slipped his arm around had been virtually undressed on the spot. And speaking of _slipping_…

"If your hand goes any further down form where it is, I swear I'll make you tie that kimono right over left", he ground out, eyebrow twitching as he did his best to look straight ahead and pretend he wasn't the least uncomfortable. Not uncomfortable at all.

"If you insist~"

A ripple buzzed through Shiro's spine as Mephisto's clawed fingers secured themselves more firmly onto his hip.

"Oh, yeah, _that's _what I insisted on. Honestly, didn't you get enough at the dancing court, you pervert…?"

"The first rule of demons is that one can never have enough", Mephisto winked with a grin. "Relax, Shiro – you'll have worry lines before you hit thirty!"

"Yeah…" He rubbed his forehead, attempting to smooth out his brow. "It was a tense walk, that. You're right: for me it's an achievement to grow older. It's a miracle if I reach thirty at all."

"Miracle might not be the proper word, with a guardian angel like me…"

Mephisto's chuckle infected Shiro; he tried to stifle a bout of laughter, but didn't succeed very well. The idea was just too… silly.

"Mfufufufu, oh yes, that's gotta be the crappiest manga title ever: Guardian Angel Sammy…"

Mephisto made a… _noise _that was best described as a dog grumbling because it can't reach an itch.

"I told you not to use that nickname."

"I never do as I'm told, remember? And right now, I'm being showcased as your toy boy", he said in a voice reeking of insincere pleasantness. "That permits me to use any dirty tricks I can think of."

"Hm~ maybe I should print _that_ on your ID-card, then?" Mephisto smirked, eyes lighting up with the idea. "Lower Second Class Toy Boy. Has quite the ring to it."

"Pffwahahahahahhaaa~ the ring of cheap brothels in the shabbiest pleasure districts!" Oh, that was so good… so ridiculous, so typically him… "Oh god, Lower Second Class Toy Boy…! Ahaha-haah-haah do that and I'll shoot you, I swear!"

"Then I will demote you", the demon frowned. "Lower Third Class Toy Boy. With restricted access to firearms."

"Pff, sure: then I'll address my reports to Sir Sammy Cuddle-bun."

Mephisto hid his pained expression well, but Shiro felt him shudder through the hand on his hip.

They made an odd pair, yes. Unlikely and unexpected, yes. That was the beauty of it.

Where two worlds collide, there is an infinitesimal sliver of infinite possibilities that allows for all that both hold unlikely to occur. Where two opposites meet, anything that could be expected is nullified when they unexpectedly find likeness. Where light meets darkness, there is a grey zone for the ones who would attempt to walk a middle path that nobody has walked before.

* * *

The area was crowded long before they reached the lake. The particular street they had chosen was blocked by huge, red-skinned oni cloaked in the pungent smell of rotting leather. Shiro expected them to move aside for Mephisto, and was startled when the latter pulled him close as if to-

*poof*

"Whoa-!"

He hadn't _meant _to grab onto Mephisto… but when you suddenly find yourself a hundred feet up in the air, you aren't picky as long as you can hold onto something solid.

"If your hand goes any further down from where it is", the demon grinned, using Shiro's words, "I will make you tie that yukata… looser~"

They sat on a divan from the murkiest nightmares of fashion, furnished with plush striped cushions. Oh well, Mephisto sat on it; Shiro sat in his lap, more or less. With one hand around the basket and the other at the small of the demon's back.

"And I will dump a basket of food over your head", Shiro politely informed him. He'd done that on purpose, that was for certain: Shiro vividly recalled when Mephisto had _misinterpreted _him in the infirmary while he was tying his bow. Shiro cautiously slid himself down on the divan, not really happy with how far he would have to fall to hit the ground. "We're watching the show from here?" he asked, stealing a distrustful glance downward and concluding that they hovered above the crowd around the lake. They wouldn't see much of the performance from here.

"The only proper way to watch anything is in comfort, from the best seat", he snapped his fingers and produced several tiered serving trays loaded with biscuits and pastries, "with snacks." He leaned into his cushion with a content look as he selected a bite-sized slice of strawberry cheesecake; and a familiar screeching, hissing noise shot through the air.

The first firework threw cascades of red light over them, and Shiro burst out laughing. Crossfire shot up from all sides of the lake and echoed through the silent forest, and Shiro laughed through it all: hearty, unrestrained laughter that shook his body free of tension and heavy thoughts.

"Oh, you did it, you sneaky bastard…! Hahahaha…!" He ran his fingers through his messy hair and grinned incredulously at the red, blue, white, and golden sparks that devoured the night around them. "You actually did it… yukatas and fireworks and a secluded viewpoint…" He shot a glare at the demon next to him, but couldn't clear the smile entirely off his face. "You can forget that I'd hold your hand, though."

"How unromantic…" Mephisto pulled a face, but there was a smile tugging his lips as he licked cheesecake off his fingers.

"I thought we'd established that already; if you're looking for romance, you've got the wrong guy." Shiro peered over the edge of the divan. "And I think I might have accidentally knocked somebody out with my geta", he laughed softly, wiggling his remaining sandal with his toes.

"A most unusual way to make someone fall for you", Mephisto observed with a downwards glance, "but then again you do have your own unique way of showing affection, Cinderella."

"And I was Sleeping Beauty earlier…? Yeah, I was awake. A little. Seriously though, who's the princess here?"

"Why, I am obviously the Prince", Mephisto snickered, and a bright shower of sparks lit his eyes from green to gold. "That leaves you to be the princess."

"Fancy clothes, and shoes for the ball? No, you're my fairy godmother", he teased back. "Goes great with your big, pointy ears."

"I don't have big ears." Said ears pulled down as if to underline the statement. "They are proportional to the rest of me."

"Proportional to your oversized ego", Shiro chuckled under his breath, leaning back against his cushion to enjoy the show.

"I heard that."

"Big ears, good hearing."

"I don't have big ears!"

The night exploded around them, veiled in acrid mist and flashing light, and the clipped tunes from the tanuki orchestra chased the trails of smoke up to their front-row seat.

"I think this is the best birthday I've had", Shiro murmured through a soft smile. Didn't matter if Mephisto's ears were good enough to pick it up or not. It was still true.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Grootslang **– mythological giant snake in Angola, supposed to eat elephants and covet precious stones.

**Belly-drumming and other tanuki musical talents **It's almost common knowledge, I think, that older tanuki can use their bellies as drums. The "bells" I'm not sure about, but I found this nice little Japanese song to base that on:

_Tan Tan Tanuki no kintama wa, Kaze mo nai no ni, Bura bura_

Translates as:

_Tan Tan Tan ring the Tanuki's balls, Even when the wind stops blowing, They swing away_

I just don't get that country's culture sometimes… xD

**Tying a kimono** What's fascinated me for a while is the tremendous significance of merely tying your clothes together. Folding the kimono's front left side over right is standard: the only time you fold it right side over left is when you dress a body for a funeral.

**Legends and stories** In traditional Japanese art, the lion is often depicted with peonies. Why?

An old legend from Katherine M. Ball's _Animal Motifs in Asian Art_:

_A priest, Shakkyo, while on a journey to Wu-t'ai-Shan in search of knowledge, was about to cross a stone bridge when a youth carrying fire-wood approached him and warned him not to proceed, as the country beyond was infested with lions which would devour him unless he was protected by spiritual power. As the priest was deliberating upon this information the place suddenly became fragrant and the air rang with beautiful music, while the youth revealed himself as Monju Bosatsu [a disciple of Buddha]. Then simultaneously, a lion came from the forest and, circling about a growing peony flower, danced for the edification of the priest._

There's also an old ghost story called _Botan Dourou_(The Peony Lantern) that you can, with a little squinting, apply to this chapter.

_In the shortest version possible, a man sees a beautiful woman accompanied by a young girl holding a peony lantern walk past his house at night. He falls in love, and invites the woman to his house. She returns every night and leaves before dawn every day, and the man grows increasingly weaker. A suspicious neighbour peeks in on the pair one night, and since he is not under the spell, he sees that the woman is a skeleton: a ghost, leeching off the life of the man by seducing him. The neighbour warns him, and helps put up wards around the house when the man realises his life is in danger. The woman can't enter, but calls out to him from outside the house. Against better knowledge, overcome by his passion, he goes to her and follows her "home". The next morning, his body is found intertwined with the skeleton in her grave chamber._

**Flower language** The peony: king of flowers, wealth, elegance, honour, love, and good fortune in romance/marriage – something Mephisto needs with such a romantically challenged young man as Shiro…? =P The peony is also traditionally used for protection against evil spirits – which I suppose fits, in a twisted way. X)

The Wisteria (only the select pieces that apply here): patience, endurance, exploration, creative expansion.

**Concerning names **Names always have significance one way or the other in manga. I'm giving Shiro's a lot of attention, but it's harder with Samael since that has an entire mythology attached to it. Still: patching it together as best I can here. ^_^' Remember how Amaimon never calls him anything except aniue in anime and manga? In all likelihood, that is to hide the fact that his real name is Samael from the viewers/readers. But if we disregard ourselves and think of the logic of that _inside_ the story, you can play with it in interesting ways. I can think of a few reasons why other demons wouldn't want to use his name…


	13. 65: Brothers

**A/N: Now, there's been a lot of fanart of my work rattling in lately, **and I put the links up in the chapters they apply to; but if you don't find them or  
they don't work, there's a complete "hall of fame" on my author profile (which doesn't butcher links, O Glory~!). If you do go take a look, make sure you're  
nice to the artists. (They don't bite: I suspect they would have bitten me already if they did.)

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

…Jesus. How many hours of sleep had he gotten…? By the time Mephisto had dropped him off at Kiridani Ryokan he'd been just awake enough to tell the toothbrush from the razor: when he woke to the blearing of a heartless alarm clock some time later, he came as far as squeezing toothpaste over the razor blade before he realised he'd gotten the wrong article.

* * *

"What's this slovenly appearance?" Mephisto frowned disapprovingly, hands on his hips, as Shiro came shuffling towards the meeting hall. "You are attending a conference of great importance, and representing your school: some manners, if I may!"

Shiro fished the rolled-up tie out of his pocket with a facial expression that made words superfluous. Mephisto had poofed the uniform to his room the night before, in a neatly folded stack that ruined Shiro's use-and-re-use knot. The demon cocked an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Nineteen years of age, and you still don't know how to do a tie?" He plucked the garment out of Shiro's hand, tugged the collar up, and slung it around his neck. "You're lucky I had plenty of practice on my younger brothers."

"Playing dress-up on them instead of dolls, Princess…?" Shiro smiled sweetly.

"Only Iblis", he replied blithely, gloved fingers deftly working the tie into a knot. "He had such great lines, looked good in anything you put him in."

"Pfffnnhehehehe don't do this to me…! I'm attending a meeting with just two hours of sleep, you're only making it worse…!" Shiro covered his face with his hand, shaking with unhinged laughter. He was tired alright. Just imagining Mephisto with a pair of curling tongs… "Man, I'm glad I'm not your brother…"

"So am I."

"What, I wouldn't make a good prince?"

"I have _six _brothers", Mephisto emphasized. "_Younger _brothers."

"Well, I have zero brothers, so I don't know what I'm missing."

"Two centuries of teaching Astaroth table manners. Fifty years' vain attempts to get Amaimon to stop biting his claws. And so on and so forth. I don't want to think of how long it would take to make you quit smoking." Mephisto smoothed the collar down over the tie. "And cursing." He adjusted the tie and tucked the narrow end in the hoop. "And picking your ears!" he grumbled with a pained grimace.

…Shiro felt the tiniest twinge of regret that he wasn't Mephisto's brother.

* * *

**A/N: Six younger brothers? Seen Rin in ch 39 of AnE? 'nuf said. ;P**


	14. 66: Disaster

**A/N: Credit for the cuteness in this chapter goes to Pheles-chan, and credit for tormenting one of the main characters is on Zeitdieb. ;3 What have I contributed, really...? ^_^' General musings around AnE-verse, I think... Oh well, I contribute with my dog, Tott. Because I really think Shiro should like dogs.**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

****Disaster.

Shiro shed each piece of clothing with a heavy sigh.

Not a natural disaster that strikes without warning, indiscriminate in its fierceness and adhering to the laws of chaos alone, no: a human disaster. A disaster that creeps up on you in orderly fashion, hiding its destructive nature in the guise of good intentions. Slower by comparison, but just as devastating.

* * *

_"We come from different traditions, but have worked side by side for long years: what made that possible, is respect. Respect allowed us to each lay half the distance behind, and join hands at the middle. Thus, we do not say 'an exorcist should not do his work': we say 'an exorcist's work can be done many ways'. When you evict humans from a place they have no right to stay in, you do not do so by shooting them down like dogs. Instead, you speak to them. You explain why they cannot stay, and offer them another place to live. The same can be done with demons. The Order of the True Cross promotes peace, and the way to peace need not be paved with bodies. Peace means no bloodshed; on either side."_

_The speaker for the Futotsuki, seated second from the middle of the table, nodded a small bow: the murmurs of interpreters kept droning a few seconds after he had silenced. Shiro nodded, too, and fought to keep his eyes from closing._

_"Respect is important to all of us", he listened in from an interpreter translating Italian into Japanese. "Respect is the very foundation we build cooperation and brotherhood on. Respect, loyalty, and faith are what ties us together against the troops Gehenna sends to Assiah. It is an attack, and it is the purpose of the Order of the True Cross to protect. The Order wants peace, as you say; and in war, the price for peace is paid in blood. If we were to capture and relocate demons, that price would be paid in human blood: that is not, and never will be, an option for the Order of the True Cross."_

_"For troops, one raises arms to protect: for visitors, one raises a cup of greeting, as we have done for you. Many demons come here are not troops but visitors, and what we fight are the merely shadows of our own fear and ignorance. Demons are curious explorers, knowing nothing of our world and our ways; and like children, they do not know right and wrong without explanation. But they are quick studies, and with time and exposure to human culture they can become valuable allies: the Futotsuki have seen generation upon generation prove this true. You can hardly contest my words, sirs; seeing as you have living evidence of the truth in them seated in your midst." _

* * *

He slipped the tie over his head, keeping the knot for future use. The Futotsuki had addressed Mephisto often, one way or the other, hoping for support for their cause. He hadn't let them down – neither had he supported them. It was hard to tell what he _had _done, when you were that tired and didn't quite follow his billowing cadence…

* * *

_"You speak like a true Futotsuki, Hiroshi-san, and that I say as a compliment. If ever there were a link between Assiah and Gehenna that made service like mine possible, it is you and your clansmen. It is true that I hold a most unique station within the Order; and yet, it is equally true that a familiar will turn against a tamer that loses his confidence. It is so because demon society is based on one rule, and one rule alone: might makes right. Demons either obey, or command. It's a crude rule to base an entire world on, but an effective such: the ones of power command, the ones of lesser power obey. The only way for demons and humans to coexist would be to bind every demon in Assiah to a human – and I fear there are simply too few humans strong enough of heart for that. Demons that are bound can serve the interests of the Order, as I do: but the ones that are not must be viewed as enemies. I will remind you: demons either command or obey; and if they do not obey the Order, they obey Satan." _

* * *

Shiro folded his shirt, trousers, underwear, and uniform jacket and stacked them in the locker. The tie was placed on top together with his socks.

The disaster had gained momentum, like an avalanche. Human disasters are strange that way: humans create them, and they can stop them, but they don't. They just don't. Ironic as it was, the only one in the discussion that had maintained civilized behaviour was the one that was not human.

* * *

_"They are capable of thinking and speaking like humans: all we ask is that they are treated accordingly. Even you must see, they are not animals!"_

_"If they were animals, there wouldn't be need for an organization to battle them. They are intelligent, I'll give you that, but they're creatures of evil with only two things in mind: corrupt and destroy. To liken them to humans is-"_

_"Is something you have never been willing to look away from your doctrine and admit. Demons have lived in these lands for thousands of years: they have half-human children here, and children's children. The mere fact that we can interbreed with them shows how close our species are! The methods you promote are equal to genoci-"_

_"You _dare _speak such blasphemy as to equal demons with humans! If they can interbreed with humans it's because the Devil made them a mockery image of the Lord's creation, to ruin it from the very core by defiling the seed of-"_

_"Gentlemen, gentlemen~ I believe I must once again intervene to clarify: demons and humans are not_ _related, in any way. That we can bear and sire children in Assiah is possible only because we borrow bodies of Assian birth. Our presence alters the body, and its seed and eggs; any child conceived with such a body will be altered also. It is not the topic of our discussion whether or not we are related, however, but why we come in contact at all. Demons have indeed lived in Assiah for millennia; peacefully, one might even go as far as saying, but peace is not the intention of the one that sends them. Conquest requires no troops or weapons other than time. With time, humans grow used to the presence of demons; with time, demons grow in number, and grow to consider this land theirs. Demons are territorial, as you know, and they do not take kindly to beings, human or demon, that trespass on their grounds. It is therefore vital – _essential_, even – that humans do not tolerate demons on their land. I speak foremost of cities, villages, and places humans frequent: forests and mountains we lack the means to cover either way, and to hunt demons there is entirely unnecessary unless they are aggressive and prone to assailing humans. What the Order does, in essence, is to implement the very same rule demons have always adhered to: might makes right. It is the same rule you make use of in your bonding with your familiars, is it not?" _

* * *

Lastly, Shiro put away his glasses, scrubbed himself off in the washing area, and grabbed a towel. Gods knew he needed this: there would be another meeting tomorrow, and it would be just as bad as this one.

Towel on head, he made for the natural hot spring that had been annexed to the ryokan as its own building. A bliss sigh ghosted into the steam as he lowered himself into the water. Nothing like a hot bath to ease the stiffness out of the body.

Shiro enjoyed the onsen almost as much as he enjoyed sleeping. The one advantage of sharing accommodation with all the wives and kids? He could have the men's section virtually to himself. Just lean back, arms comfortably spread over the edge of the natural pool… Shiro's attention lingered lazily on the seductive dance of the steam rivulets – white and winding, licking over the water without tickling its surface – and was reminded of the demons last night. What a birthday that had been… pebbles and puddles… there's no avoiding inconveniencies on life's path, so you might as well learn from them…

He sat. Nothing more, just sat: that is the greatest luxury a human being can have. He dozed slowly; nothing moved, as if time stood still… and that was the only reason he noticed the small waves lapping at his chest. Shiro strained his myopic eyes but saw no one – only a very dense swirl of steam that hovered close to the surfa-

"What are you doing here?!" He hurriedly pulled down the towel to wrap it around his hips. Yes, it got soaked. That didn't really matter at the moment. "They have an onsen back at your ryokan, too!"

"Yes, and it's full of diplomats and exorcists", the white dog pointed out as it swam over to him. "A lot less crowded here."

"…and because there's so much space, you sit in my lap?"

"It's the perfect height when I'm in dog-form", he said and plopped his little body down on the submerged towel, which left only his head above the surface. "Ah~ nothing like a hot bath to ease the stiffness out of the body…" His ears drooped pleasantly along with his eyelids.

…and there was something in the whole _aura _of contentment around him that simply could not go unpunished.

"Get yourself some other seat." He rose sharply, and the detestably smug little dog plummeted underwater with a yelp. "I doubt dogs are even allowed in-fwehehehahahaa!"

Mephisto had a rather… _flat_… frame as a man, and he gained no extra weight as a dog: all his cuddly softness was fur. _Dry_ fur. And the _look _the miserable little creature gave him, after crawling up on the floor tiles…

"Snrrrkahahahaha you should see yourself ahaahahahaahaa…!"

"I _know _what I look like, _thank you_", he grumbled, and waited until Shiro was within range before he shook water out of his fur. "Such a rude way of- no, that's mine!"

"You got my towel wet", Shiro pointed out, wiping his neck and torso with the one Mephisto had left on a rock.

"You have no manners at all – dumping me in the water and then taking my towel! I'm a _king_, you know! The least you could do is dry me!"

"Not coming off as very royal in that condition", he grinned at the fuming little swab. "Didn't you just shake?"

"And do I look dry to you?" he huffed, and the sight of the dripping moustaches blowing outwards sent Shiro into another laughing fit.

…ah, _yes_…

"Right, right: I'll dry you, your highness", he said, carefully considering if it was worth it or not. It was, of course. He was tired: works wonders on judgement. "I'll catch hell for it later if I don't." And hell two times over for what he was about to do…

Shiro folded himself down on his knees and wrapped the still fairly dry towel around Mephisto…

…and cracked a devil's grin.

"No escaping now, your highness~"

"Nghah! St-t-t-top-p tha-a-at! It g-goes a-g-g-ain-n-st-t-t th-the g-grain, you m-mong-g-grel!"

"Don't you worry, I'll make a fine little cotton-wad out of you~" Shiro snickered maliciously as he rubbed the dog roughly in all the wrong directions. Mephisto put up a most undignified fight, whining and squirming and kicking until he almost got away. "No you don't – you're not dry yet!" Shiro dove after him, caught the struggling little body around the midriff, and lifted him off the floor for a better- "What was that…?" The grin disappeared, only to grow back with ten times more devilry glinting off it when he realised what _that _had been. "I don't believe it…!"

"It was nothing! Let me g-nnnhihihihihihiiihahahahaaaaa!"

Oh no~ When you find out that the King of Time, the most powerful demon in the history of Assiah, is _ticklish_… you do not let go.

"Ahahahahaha-ah-ah-nnnh-ihihihihihii st-stop!"

"Oh, you've got better manners than that, your highness~ How about a 'please'…?" This was just too good to be true. The furry little body twisted like crazy in his lap, legs kicking the air and tears – tears? could dogs even cry? – trickling into the already damp fur.

"Nh-ahahahehehhehehee-I can't ah-ah-nhahahahahaa-_stop _or I will…!"

*poof*

The dog in his lap grew _a lot _heavier. And the pink smoke bought Shiro just enough time to realize that the chest he hugged was furless. And naked.

"Okay, I won't tickle you", he said hurriedly and yanked his hands away, eyes squeezed shut and cheeks red-hot. "Just turn back into the dog."

"So you can continue your assaults? No thank you."

No; no, no, _no_ – _anyone _could come in at _any _time and find them in a situation that would hardly qualify their relation as _friendship_…!

"Come on, Mephisto, don't do this to me…!" Shiro groaned. "_He is not_ _doing this, that cheeky son of a bitch, he is _not _playing hard to get _now _of all times…!_" He should at least push him off his lap, but he didn't really dare… touch him… without seeing what he touched…

"Me, do anything to you?" said the affronted voice in the darkness outside his eyelids. Oh yes; he was playing hard to get. Probably with a grin three miles wide. "_You _are the perpetrator here. My hair is a mess. And it's _wet_. Do you have any idea how bothersome it is to untangle when it's-"

"Fuck's sake, I'll make it up to you: just turn back _now_!"

*poof*

The little dog was back in his lap…

"You've _got _to be kidding me."

…with a hair brush between its teeth.

* * *

Shiro had never had a pet, or hair long enough to need a brush. It wasn't rocket science, using one, but he wasn't exactly… skillful. Initially, yelps and accusing glares were his sole reward for mending the tangles, but after a while… after a while, Shiro had found a whole new motivation for the task.

Demons were truly fascinating, in their many unexpected ways. Pleasure-seekers that pay no attention to who or what they damage in search of what they want, yes: but when sated… no one ever mentions how peaceful they can be when satisfied. No one ever mentions how they can become soft and warm under your hands, and how their little paws stretch lazily with contentment.

"_Wonder what Kohu-sensei would say…?_" he smiled to himself, rhythmically running the brush through the white fur. "_If I said I'd made the King of Time purr in my lap…?_"

Yes, Mephisto purred. Not like a cat, or a dog, or anything this side of the dimensional barriers, but it was clearly a satisfied rumbling that rose from his throat. And occasionally, so did other sounds:

"Mmnnnh~ yes~"

"Jesus, don't say that…" he grimaced, halting the brush halfway down his back. "At least don't _sound _like that. It's disgusting."

"Give me more, Shiro~"

Every muscle in his body convulsed at once. He _knew _he was being baited… but damn it's hard to resist when you're baited by such a silver tongue…

"Chris'sake, you're a _dog_! Do you have any idea how disturbing it is to hear things like that from a dog?!"

"You'd rather hear it from me in human form~?" the awful little creature suggested: Shiro's face heated up all the way out to the tips of his ears.

"No: _thank you _for giving me nightmares for the rest of my life."

"You even dream of me? Shiro Shiro, is there something you're not telling me~?"

"Yeah: if you wanna get brushed, shut up." On second thought… "Or else I'll toss you in the cold pool", he added, casting a glance at the fuzzy shape of the tiled pool in the corner.

"Such a brute", the dog huffed with a dismissive flick of the little tail. "Toss _me _in the pool for images _your_ mind wove – my word! Delve and dissect and deduce the world without, but dare not look within: even in this day and age, humans blame their faults on demons."

"And even in this day and age, demons blame theirs on humans." Shiro captured a tangle that had hidden itself by Mephisto's elbow and set to work on it. "Weaving looms weave according to the patterns they're fed. You know what the human mind wants; all you need to do is feed it the right words. Or sounds."

"Hmm~?" The little ears perked up. "Did I just hear you admit that you want to-"

"I meant with girls."

"That's not what you said", the dog enlightened pleasantly.

"I'm tired: you don't listen to what I say when I'm tired. I _meant _with girls."

"Nothing like alcohol and fatigue to loosen the knots Prudence ties on one's to-what are you-NO! No no no no…!"

"You'll be quiet, then?" Shiro said with a smug smirk, holding Mephisto under his front legs over the hungry depths of the cold pool.

"Yes!"

Indeed, demons were fascinating: yesternight, that anxious little mop of fur had been King of Time out to the tips of his fingernails. So many contrasts and contradictions...

"What…?" said dog asked, and Shiro realised he had still held him over the water while he spaced out.

"Technically", he creased his brow in contemplation, "I should drop you. You were warned."

Heh. That one hit the mark.

"No, it's cold!" Mephisto pawed feebly for support on his lower arms, as if he could feel the grip loosening already. "I don't like cold!"

Shiro's pokerface lost to the irresistible tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You really are an adorable little cuddle-bun."

"Eh?" Mephisto went still. Dammit if he wasn't even cuter when he was confused…

"But if you're not quiet from now", Shiro carried the dog back to where he'd left the brush, "you're getting dunked in the cold pool." He seated himself again, with Mephisto in his lap and a mean smile on his lips. "And if you wanna get dry and warm afterwards, I believe there's a tumble dryer in the laundry room that will be happy to provide its services."

_Offended_, the look said. _Not amused consent_, was woven in between the lines, along with a small, dignified notion of _…well, it's worth it_.

It says something of two individuals that they don't need words to communicate.

* * *

He had, in all honesty, always considered himself a cat person. Dogs were clingy and dumb, and noisy. Cats were a good size; they were intelligent, and they were independent. They didn't give a damn about your opinion, and you didn't need to give a damn about theirs.

…but they weren't half as cute as Mephisto. Yes: cute, dignity be damned. That dog was definitely cute. He wasn't much bigger than a cat, he was intelligent, and independent, and he certainly didn't give a damn about Shiro's opinions. And he purred. The tangles were long since undone, but Shiro kept the brush running through the fur in a steady rhythm.

Mephisto had been silent, initially, but as his ears and eyelids began to droop lower, that soft rumble escaped him unawares. Shiro didn't alert him to it. Instead, he watched as the little body rocked with the motion of the brush and began to melt from sitting into lying.

Once Mephisto was too far gone to notice, Shiro started guiding the hairs in other directions with the brush. Oh yes, that would look nice~ Not too much, or he would stir, but enough to make for a very interesting hairstyle when he turned b-

*poof*

"Oi! Wake up! You never said you turn back when you fall asleep, dammit! Wake _up_!"

* * *

Shiro crawled onto his futon and kicked off the covers. Not all the demons in Gehenna could keep him from sleeping tonight…

* * *

**A/N:**

**Well, it says in the character description of Izaya Orihara that he's ticklish: and we all know which other famous, sadistically philanthropic character Kamiya Hiroshi has voiced. ;3 That's the only thing I have to say in my defense, really. ^_^' It seemed so fitting for Mephisto to be ticklish… and to enjoy a bit of pampering. ;P Based somewhat off Tott: he's a little prince, for sure… ^_^'**


	15. 67: Miracle

**A/N: I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

****…and yet, that was precisely what it took to wake him. Shiro sensed it before he heard it, thought it before his mind woke up: demons.

He got his glasses in a hurry and fumbled out of the twisted sheets to open the shoji doors to the balcony. Oh, it was a postcard view, alright. The moon bled blue-white light down the valley slopes, and the cicadas sang a deafening serenade to summer: a night for love and star-gazing… if the stars had not been eaten by black wings…

"_…like when Kaa-san described the war planes…_"

Tengus. _Hundreds_.

Shiro had just enough time to get his uniform trousers on: a belt for the gun and two pockets for the spare magazines, all he needed. He shot the tengu dead the moment it tore through the balcony doors.

The spent case struck a muted clink on the tatami mats.

23

One magazine in the SIG P220 and one in each trouser pocket. Eight bullets in each. One fired.

"_Let the countdown begin_", he thought grimly.

Panicked humans do one of two things: hide or flee. Shiro ruled out the latter option as he ran for the stairs that led to the ground floor of the ryokan. The sky was the tengus' home ground: better stay indoors where their wings would make them clumsier.

Still, he ran downstairs to the foyer, because there is one thing panicked humans never do: think.

"Stop! They're swarming out there!"

A dishevelled mother in nightdress was dragging two bawling children towards the entrance. She cast a quick, white-faced glance at him over her shoulder, and pushed open the doors. She hadn't understood a word he had-

"_Of course not, she doesn't even speak Japanese!_" Oh, English, English; why was he so poor at English?

No time for speaking: he lunged after her, out in the screeching night, heart sealed shut and counting…

22, 21, 20…

Feathers rained from the sky like light, black snow.

19, 18…

He snatched one of the kids – the little girl that had chased and exorcised her brother in the foyer the day before – and hid her behind him.

17, 16: empty

He roughly pushed her and her mother back towards the ryokan, disengaged the empty magazine and shoved another into the handle. The mother refused to go back, tore at his arm and screamed something he couldn't underst-

A cry that wasn't a tengu's screech wailed above, and a white, horrified bundle flickered in and out of vision among the black bodies in the sky.

_Tengus reside in the mountains and typically take the shape of priests and monks to trick humans, _Kohu-sensei's voice played in his head, like a tape recorder. _The older, stronger daitengus are intelligent, while young tengus are more likely to behave like animals. Regardless of age and level, they are nasty creatures, known to kidnap and feed on human children…_

Shiro pushed his glasses up with his left hand, raising the gun with his right.

The kid was in the line of fire between him and the tengu, swinging wildly in the wrinkly claws and increasing the distance by the second…

"Tch!" First shot hit another tengu that flew past. "_Come on, come on…!_" Second shot went through the wing, and demon and child pivoted for the ground. "_It didn't let go of the kid, fucking-_"

He sprinted ahead barefoot, ducking talons and beaks, and went down on the ground with the whole mess of feathers and blood and screaming child in his arms.

"That kid's not going anywhere!" Shiro grabbed something – no idea what, but it had feathers – and twisted. He jerked his head out of the way when a sharp beak tried to tear his face off. "_He's still screaming, at least he's alive._" The beak came back around, and he was forced to drop the gun and grab it with both hands. This, the tengu didn't like: wings beating wildly at the ground under its back, it let the boy go and slashed at Shiro with its claws. It got him in the thigh with a force that made him see white stars, but a foot firmly planted into its chest prevented it from getting him in any vital parts.

In the corner of his eye he saw another tengu land between the kid and his mother, hopping towards the panicked boy on its crooked, scaly hind legs.

"_No – no no no! Shit…!_"

The demon underneath him jerked its head sharply to the side, trying to free itse-

And in one rough twist, he snapped its neck.

More than that: under his fingers, cracks in the massive beak gave off faint tendrils of miasma when they healed back together.

"_I… should not be able to do that…_"

The precious seconds that bought him didn't allow for thinking: a broken neck wouldn't kill a demon, but a silver-jacket bullet in its head would. He tore the P220 from the ground and fired, right into the beak that opened as the head snapped back onto the spine. Shiro swivelled around in a tenth of a second and put a bullet in the other tengu. The kid was completely out of it with panic, but fortunately kids operated on some default setting that made him run straight through the dissolving miasma, straight to his mother.

Was that 15, or 14? 13? More likely 14 or 13.

He hissed curses as he limped after them back into the ryokan, trying to remember how many bullets he had spent on getting the kid back.

13-or-12, 12-or-11…

The tengus were inside the ryokan, too, now. Screams and crying and sounds of feet running for the exit... Shiro herded panicked women and children back from the entrance, shouting an accented "Go!" repeatedly as he tried to think.

The demons were there because of the exorcists, no doubt. Demons were territorial; they discovered intruders, they attacked them. The other ryokan must be under attack too, but they were many more, they would be able to fight it off, fight their way over to them…

…how fast? 12 bullets or 11, it wouldn't be enough either way.

Shiro tore a notepad and a pencil from the reception desk, scribbled warding symbols on it and pinned it between the entrance door and the notice with onsen opening hours mounted on it. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

Hold the ryokan until backup arrived from across the village: that was the only option. Ridiculous. Paper doors in every room, balconies and glass windows; did people ever stop to think they might build houses a little more safe? They had to barricade themselves somehow, barricade in a small space they could hold, preferably with only one entrance – a suicide strategy if the demons got through, but if they got through it wouldn't matter anyway since they had no means of-

The clawing and screeching from the other side of the door faded on his ears.

_Open_ _09.00-19.00, free for guests staying at Kiridani Ryokan! Guests who do not stay at Kiridani Ryokan may use its onsen at the price of ¥500 for adults and ¥100 for children (age 12 or under) _

"Salt!" he shouted when he finally remembered the English word.

A woman stumbled down the stairs screaming, a tengu hot on her heels but slowed down by the narrow, troublesome stairs.

11-or-10

"Listen to me!" he shouted at the pale, tear-streaked faces that huddled together in corners and behind lounge furniture. "I need to know how many of you there are, and I need sa- oh, for god's sake, is there _anyone _in here that speaks Japanese?!"

"I-I do!" said a thin, bespectacled man with huge, frightened eyes. His Japanese was accented with something that could have been French or Romanian. An interpreter. Perfect.

"Good, good: who's in room number one?" Shiro demanded curtly, tearing and scribbling notes as fast as he could.

"Uh, she is", the interpreter said, pointing at a blonde woman rocking a weeping ten-something-year-old in her arms. "What can-"

"The ryokan has twelve rooms: go through them number by number and see if anyone's missing!" He pictured Shizuku's omamori in his mind, hoping adrenaline wasn't making him forget the details. "It's not bullet-proof, but these should make demons less eager to jump you." He stacked the notes on the reception desk. "I want everyone to- what are you waiting for?" he snapped, snatching the gun beside him and shooting two tengus that had found a window. "If everyone's here: take the notes, grab the kids, and get moving! We need salt from the kitchen!"

9-or-8

Gun in one hand and the other pressed against the gash in his thigh, Shiro led the whimpering bunch through the door to the area restricted to personnel. The kitchen was tidy and small, with only one stove, two refrigerators and a pantry, and it was-

8-or – _empty_

"Find salt!" he commanded, slamming his last magazine into the gun and making short work of the scavenging demons.

7, 6, 5 – the shells of their remaining lifelines rang musically against the tiled floor.

They left the kitchen with one bag and one tin box of salt. Shiro didn't know how much longer it would take for the exorcists to fight their way through; time has a tendency to be unreliable when it spins twice as fast in your head as it does outside it. Right now, time was measured in bullets, and they were running out.

Stay calm. He was doing everything he could, he had a plan, he had-

"Ngh…!"

"Sir? Sir, are you unwell?"

He had a goddamn demon trying to take his body.

"I'm fine", he grated, supporting himself against the corridor wall with his right elbow. "_I can't afford this now! I have to get them to safety, I-_" Or all these people would die, women torn to shreds and children eaten before their eyes; all because he was cursed with a heart that drew demons like bees to honey. "_It's probably because of me they're here: all the other exorcists are at the other ryokan. I'm the reason they-_" He snapped his line of thought in half and turned his mind to the dark, fleeting presence that whispered despair to his heart. "_Leave. Now._" It tried again to wind convincing words around him, but even if he couldn't save these people, even if he couldn't hold Kiridani Ryokan long enough for the exorcists to reach them, he _would _hold his heart. "_Either you leave_", he said coldly, "_or you stay and watch me kill your relatives 'til my last breath. This body's mine._"

"It's not far. Keep walking, and make sure not to lose anyone", he said aloud, pressed his palm over the wound, and limped on with a grim face. "Everyone in the water", he panted as he shouldered open the door to the onsen. "All in one pool, cram yourselves in if you must."

He sank down on a rock beside the pool and cast a quick glance at his leg – deep cut, but it had taken on the outside of the thigh and not the inside, thank god – before he drew a breath and started chanting. People pushed and shuffled into the pool, gasping at the heat but bearing with it.

Right. If he managed this, he'd done all he could. _If _he managed it.

"O water, creature of God, I exorcise you in the name of God the Father almighty…"

He had avoided Aria chanting until then. Goggles-sensei was a living example of the risks with Aria: start chanting, and demons will come at you in a solid wave of darkness. Arias never went on missions without backup.

Backup had better arrive soon.

"O salt, creature of God", he began when the baleful screeches soaked in through the walls. The children weren't screaming anymore: they were deathly silent, barely even breathing. Waiting for a miracle. "I exorcise you by the living God, by the true God, by the holy God, by the God who ordered you to be poured into the water by Eliseus the Prophet so that its life-giving powers might be restored." The door, plastered with their ward notes, trembled. Shiro was surreally aware how his voice bounced off the walls, like rock striking rock…

"_I might die here._" The corners of his lips quirked in a brief, sickly smile: "_It's a miracle if I reach thirty._"

…and how his right forefinger rested on the trigger, breathless and motionless like the children clinging to their mothers: waiting for a miracle. "I exorcise you so that you may become a means of salvation for believers, that you may bring health of soul and body to all who make use of you, arid that you may put to flight and drive away from the places where you are sprinkled…" The door burst, and the world flowed back in at them in a flurry of dark feathers and yellow eyes. "…every apparition…"

4, 3

"…villainy, and turn of devilish deceit…"

2, 1

"…and every unclean spirit, adjured by Him Who will come to judge the living and the dead and the world by fire."

0, and the yellow eyes were burning with hate-

"Amen!" He crossed himself, and kicked hard with his good leg at the tengu that lounged for him. The force of the impact tipped him backwards into the water, and the bag and the box of salt with him.

The heat and the salt bit into the wound in his thigh like fire, and he burst the surface in a bubble of hissing profanities.

"_Hope you don't mind my mouth, God. If this doesn't work…_" He brought his hand back and whipped water at the demons. "_Thank you…!_"

The tengus up front stumbled backwards against the flood of black with high-pitched wails of pain, and the room filled with the nauseating smell of burning flesh. Backup could take its time: this barricade they could hold as long as they needed.

* * *

People began shouting when they heard gun report from within the ryokan. Shiro didn't feel like shouting, or doing anything else for that matter. He had unfastened his belt and pulled it tight over the leg wound, but pressure and salt water combined for a thumping pain that had him gritting his teeth by the time backup arrived.

He was too tense to be moved by the tears when families reunited. He was too weary to join in the murmured choir of thankful prayer in different tongues. Too tense and hurt and detached for any of it: but when Kasumi hugged his wet body tight and told him he was an idiot, he smiled. She smelled of sweat and adrenaline and… gratitude.

* * *

Demons driven off, Doctors assembled the wounded in the foyer to methodically assess damage and administer treatment. Some villagers aside, all of the injured were exorcists and clansmen of the Futotsuki. Small wonder – they had had to brave the assaults out in open air all the way there.

Shiro was made to strip down to his underwear, and was given an anaesthetic before the Irish exorcist disinfected the wound and set to stitching it together. It looked pretty damn gross, to be honest. He vaguely wondered if he wouldn't have preferred the pain to that… that _wrong _feeling. He could feel the needle in the flesh, but he couldn't feel the pain, and that creeped him out. In his mind, that's what it felt like to be dead.

Shiro occupied himself with watching others being treated instead. There was… a light in their faces. A light he'd never seen and couldn't name. Torn and tired, they all still smiled as if there wasn't a trouble in the world. As if they all hadn't almost died.

It's easy to forget the simple things. Simple things like life: you don't notice life until it's slipping from your fingertips. You don't notice the taste of air until it's forced out of your lungs by the swansong of dreams unfulfilled, or the beat of your heart until it strums an arrhythmic funeral march against your ribs.

Humans are stupid that way. They are also marvellous.

When you can breathe again, you taste the air for the first time: you feel the beat of your heart in every capillary, in every cell, vibrant like the first new sprouts from fire-ravaged ground. You feel life.

It took a while before Shiro saw the faces beyond that glow and realised what he was seeing: exorcists and Futotsuki on hastily assembled futons, side by side, disagreements burnt away by the fire to make room for new things to sprout. Friend, foe and family flocked around the sickbeds to share that precious moment of simply being alive: and though he was probably light-headed by fatigue and anaesthesia… that looked a bit like a miracle.

"Mr. Fujimotó?" The same thin, glasses-wearing guy with the French-Romanian accent. "That is your name, right? Fujimotó Shiró?"

"Yes?" It sounded so weird, pronounced like that…

A tall, robust man next to the interpreter bent down and shook Shiro's hand with gusto, a man with a face that- well, Shiro could only look at his nose, really. If you took a tengu beak, shortened it and broke it, it would look something like that. Truly fascinating. When he spoke – some fast-paced, rhythmic language that sounded like it was spoken through his nose rather than his mouth – his thick eyebrows moved incessantly.

"Monsieur Deslauriers expresses his deep gratitude and earnest admiration for the courage and intelligence you have shown in keeping these people safe", the interpreter translated. "They feared the worst, when the demons attacked so suddenly and there was no way to reach Kiridani Ryokan quick enough. Rest assured, you will receive proper commendation for your performance, once-"

An even taller man took place next to Deslauriers, and his white uniform stood in stark contrast to the exorcist's black one. When it was clear that they would only be speaking whatever-Deslauriers -was-speaking – French, if Shiro would chance a guess from his name – Shiro motioned the interpreter down on his haunches and asked him to translate.

"Yes, yes, there were no casualties", Deslauriers ensured.

"What a relief!"

"Indeed – and we have this young man to thank for it. I have not heard all accounts, but my wife tells me he handled the situation with such authority she knew they were going to be safe the moment he came into the foyer. A role model indeed, Sir Pheles."

"Hai hai~ A prodigy, best in his class – and he has the youngest Yaonaru to compete with for that position. Haah, a true shame, to lose such a promising young exorcist."

"Lose? Whatever are you talking about?" Deslauriers' eyebrows made a most fascinating leap, as if determined to take cover in his thick, curly hair.

Mephisto's gloved palms turned upward, to show how much say he had in these matters.

"Alas, Fujimoto-kun's education is covered by funds from the Japanese government; with his graduation from high school this spring, he will no longer have the means to pay for further schooling." Mephisto heaved another sympathetic sigh. "If only his talent had been discovered earlier: one year is far too short a time to pass the exorcist exam, even for him."

Deslauriers' eyebrows made another attempt to jump into his hair, and he turned to Shiro when he spoke:

"Is it true that you have not been in exorcist school for more than a year, Mr. Fujimotó?" the interpreter forwarded.

"I enrolled last semester. Sir", he added, shooting a quick glance at Mephisto. Perfectly collected. Perfectly patient. _Perfectly in control._

"…m sure we can find a suitable scholarship for talented students of lesser means. Even if Mr. Fujimotó is over-age, he is…" drifted past his ears and registered somewhere in the back of his head: his brain was busy with other things.

Demons either obey, or command: obey or command the single rule of demon society. _Might makes right_. If a mighty enough demon commands… will they obey _any _command?

"_He went to the parade the night before._"

No, there was no way he would risk the lives of-

"_He wrote me in to share accommodation with the families._"

But that wouldn't-

"_I didn't remember packing that P220._"

There was no way, no way in _hell _that Mephisto would go through all that trouble for the sake of a scholar-

"_Not for a scholarship._" Shiro looked around again, looked at the serene faces of exorcists and Futotsuki rejoined with their families; exorcists and Futotsuki that had fought side by side against a common enemy, disagreements burnt away and soil left fertile for new growth. "_Miracle might not be the proper word…_"

* * *

**A/N: Festival, onsen, Shiro booked as Mephisto's wife – really now, do you think I write these things for fun? =_='**

**…yeah, I do. ;3**

**That said, **they're not without purpose even if they are mainly comic relief. That's a good rule of thumb, if you haven't  
already noticed: if I put something there, I put it there for a reason. I also like re-using expressions to explore them  
from different points of view – all is relative, after all. Squint when you read and rack your memory a bit, and you will  
see quite a few phrases recurring the way they did here.


	16. 68: Faith in you

**A/N: Shoutout to SkyHearts for the lovely fanart, although I still have a few paranoid suspicions you've been hacking into my computer and reading ahead in the fic... ;9**

**skyshow . deviantart gallery / # / d5t8f2o**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

****Next day brought a fairy tale ending into the postcard landscape, and by noon they had decided on continued cooperation between the rebel faction of the Futotsuki clan and the Order of the True Cross. The few arguments that arose were muted with grave understanding of necessity, and pointed disagreements were smoothed down by the refreshed knowledge that without each other's aid, some of them would not be sitting at the table today.

No fire forges bonds stronger than hardship.

No cause unites people like a common enemy.

No one knows human nature better than a demon.

Shiro tried, all the way back to the academy, to worm a confession out of Mephisto: in vain, not surprisingly. His silver tongue deflected questions and accusations as easily as his sword parried strikes in sparring, to the point that Shiro brought out his trump card:

"As I recall, I promised to keep your secrets", he said, staring hard the profile reading manga, as if he could force it to show some betraying tick. "And in return, you promised you would trust me."

Green eyes glanced sideways at him with a sly, amused look.

"Are you saying I didn't~?"

One sentence. With a silver tongue like his, one sentence is all you need_._


	17. 69: Pulling strings

**A/N: Again, I have to wonder: why haven't I seen any fics on this topic? 0_0' **I _know _I'm not the only one around here with a sadistic mind. That  
said, I didn't make all that much of it, since I think I've been dawdling too long anyway: I want to get to the plot, and I rudely assume you want the same…?  
^_^'

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

A button with too sharp edges. The kind that eats away at the thread it's sewn with, slowly. One by one, fibres wear thin and snap.

And Shiro was very close to snapping.

He had always had a temper, though nowadays he rarely exploded the way he had done a few times in the past. That was, in all aspects, a good thing: but right now, he wanted nothing more than a reason to explode.

* * *

The gash in his leg hurt, and it kept him on crutches: still, that was okay.

He had locked his cigarettes away in a drawer 36 hours ago, and he could hear them sing sweet love songs for his fingers. It was a bitch, but it was still okay.

Mephisto had admitted, of sorts, that he had staged the attack on the ryokan. For a human, that was not okay: for a demon… well, you can take the demon out of hell, but you can't take hell out of the demon. He served the Order's interests, in his own way; and, considering the alternative, it was… dubiously okay.

Shiro had had an inexplicable, stiff soreness in his finger joints ever since the meeting. The school nurse had no guesses except growing pains or soreness from muscle exhaustion, and had prescribed resting his hands as much as he could. No target practice. That… was not okay.

Withdrawal had started thumping a slow, steady rhythm against his skull, and no matter what he ate he never seemed to get rid of the hunger.

And so, threads had begun wearing thin.

* * *

Tch, even if someone did cause him to explode, what was he going to do? Hop after them on his crutches and beat them up with hands he could barely curl into fists? He had no idea, only knew that he felt like a steam engine with all vents blocked. Whoever caused the last thread to snap would be a sorry bastard.

Shiro made his way through the school corridors like a bomb with the countdown in bright red digits on his forehead, and many who normally might have offered a guy on crutches help with opening doors kept a nervous distance. When, despite that, a sophomore guy asked if he wanted him to carry his satchel up the staircase, the "no" he snarled at him was more of an animal growl than human speech.

The battle at Kiridani Ryokan may be in the past, but there is no rest for the wicked. Shiro still had to protect the people around him; from himself. Demons swarmed to his boiling temper, clustered the air around him and waited patiently for his cold detachment to slip and leave him open for the taking. One slip, and he would hurt someone seriously before he regained control. Whoever caused the last thread to snap would be a sorry bastard indeed.

* * *

The sorry bastard was writing reports at its desk in the dorm room. Futotsuki-sensei had come back to the Academy when the tension had settled, which also meant that the substitute teacher was alleviated of his duties. And full of questions.

"I was told you did well at the meeting." Saburota struck up conversation in the mechanical manner of a phrase book when the tapping of the crutches passed the threshold.

"I suppose", Shiro replied in a voice that wasn't the least interested in discussing the matter further: if his roommate caught that, he ignored it adamantly.

"Being able to take swift action in a dire situation is a valuable asset in an exorcist: you should pride yourself on it."

At any other time… But Shiro was not in the mood for this kind of dance.

"Just say what you wanna say and stop beating around the bush", he muttered and deposited his sore, grumpy body in the desk chair. "You're not any good at talking round anyway."

Saburota closed his notepad, laid down his pencil, and turned his chair so that Shiro had the full, straight-backed frame to look at. The glasses caught the lamplight and obliterated his eyes, but Shiro knew what look they wore. Flat. Grim. Effective. Dead. A look that Shiro mirrored perfectly opposite his interrogator.

"There seems to be a correlation between you and demon attacks", Saburota observed sombrely.

"Demons seem to like me", he returned in stony tones.

"I was told not to sully the family name by speaking of Deep Keep. I was told my cousin died on duty, killed by demons: in Deep Keep, the most fortified stronghold in Japan." His voice carried monotonously in the silence, trailed the dubious tracks Shiro himself had spent almost a year dogging. "You went down there. Why?"

Sharp and deceptively polite, like the light reflecting off his glasses: like the retort that slipped Shiro's lips before he could think:

"Taking swift action in a dire situation: that's a good thing, ain't it?"

Saburota's jaw clenched imperceptibly tighter.

"I will not play games with you, Fujimoto-kun. You knew where to go when the attack struck. There is something down there that had to do with it, and I want to know what that is."

It was not fair, or just, or defendable in any way: but Shiro was irritable, sore, hogtied by circumstance, and in a damn foul mood. That can bring out the sadist in anyone.

"Well, you know the rules of Deep Keep better than anyone: no one's allowed to say what's down there."

He wouldn't have done it if it hadn't felt so good. Bad. Good: it felt good in a bad way. It felt like steam pushing its way out an open vent.

"What d-does it take for you t-to take things serious-l-ly?"

Saburota was a good exorcist. Intelligent, efficient, responsible, good-looking: perfect. Too perfect. He was a sheet of spotless ice atop a dark lake; the kind of ice that cracks with a thin, crisp sound that reminds you of glass, and that makes you itch to break it. He possessed outstanding composure, sure: but once he started to stutter… you could hear threads snapping. You could hear ice creaking. And it felt good.

"A lot", Shiro replied, allowing hints of a cruel smile to touch his lips for reasons he couldn't determine.

"My cousin _died_", he said gravely, clenching his hands into fists in his lap as he fought to keep his stutter in check. "With a clean cut-t in his chest: the kind left b-by sword, not talons. You went down in D-deep Keep, without permis-s-sion. With a sword."

"Are you saying you think I'd kill people, senpai…?"

It was _revolting_, how steady the words were, how smoothly they rolled off his tongue: and at the same time prickling, pulling, compelling – not unlike the thrill of danger…

"I'm not- I'm s-saying you _know _what happen-n-ned." He clung to his composure, winding himself stiffer in it and hating it; hating the stutter, hating his failure to control it, hating his failure to- "And as your elder, I ord-order you to tell me."

…the thrill… of controlling a person's emotion with words…

"_I have to stop._" Snaring prey: he was snaring prey, as a demon would. Taunting and prodding and exploiting human emotion and _getting off on it_ – mother of god, since when had he…? "It's not my place to say", he said in an entirely different manner as he tried to force nastier instincts in line. "If you have questions, you should take them to higher authority. I'm sorry – about your cousin, and my behaviour." He was. Now that he'd snapped out of it, and realised what he had done, he was truly, genuinely sorry. "I'm trying to quit smoking, it's…" He made a vague gesture with his hand. "It wears on your nerves."

On _his_ nerves…? When he lowered his head in an apologetic bow, it was evident whose nerves had been worse for wear.

It sounds so nice to say the eyes are the windows of the soul. When Saburota's glasses didn't reflect the light… when composure no longer held the façade together… Shiro was reminded why windows often come with blinds.

"I forgive you." Oh, but he was good: the curtains were drawn so fast you'd doubt you actually saw anything. "For this", he added. "I can not forgive your actions during the attack: not until I have-"

The sound of silver bells and choirs singing: a knock on the door. Shiro wasted no time to grab his crutches, but hopped over on one leg to get it. Perfect timing, although…

"Good day, Fujimoto-kun. May I enter?"

…it was the last person in the world he would have expected.

"…sure", he said when he found his tongue, and limped aside to let the unexpected visitor in.

"And good day, Fujimoto-kun's roommate. Now, I come on a most urgent errand…" Shiro couldn't believe his eyes when the demon sank down on his knees, and folded himself forward into a dogeza. "Please, talk sense into Master Pheles. A servant's word is nothing to him; please, Fujimoto-kun. If it's you, he might listen."

"Uh…" A demon kowtowing before a human for help? He needed a couple of moments to get his footing, now that the world had turned upside down. "What's the matter with him…?"

"My Master is _bored_."

Belial uttered the word at the floor as though it were the name of an ancient calamity that had slept beneath the world for ages and now awakened to engulf it in destruction.

"I see", Shiro said, stroking the stubble on his chin to hide his smile. "Pestering his household staff for entertainment, is he?"

"Today, Master decided to _cook _for his staff_._" Belial's grave tone indicated that was something Very Bad, though in Shiro's ears it just sounded Very Funny. He would think many things of Mephisto, but that he could cook…?

"Well, seeing as battling demons will be my job one day…" he chuckled. "I'll help ya – just have to buy some… ammunition first."

* * *

He was so winning this bet. Almost a pity, though. The prize wasn't very exciting, but seeing Mephisto climb the walls was something he-

"Ow!"

He cursed and shook his hand, having received quite the shock from the wired doorbell.

"_Suppose a bored Mephisto is a danger to everyone…_"

"With all due respect to your condition, Fujimoto-kun, that took you quite a while", said the demon that ope-

"Belial-san? I didn't recognise you without moustache."

"His highness' main course burnt it off", Belial explained in a voice that cracked tiny veins in his polite, composed façade. Some part of Shiro pitied him: the very tiny part that didn't find all this hilarious. "Please, come in: I believe his highness is preparing dessert. On behalf of the staff as a whole, I would appreciate if you could prevent his highness from completing it."

The kitchen seemed to have followed the staff's example and gone into hiding when Mephisto's withdrawal symptoms hade made themselves known. All the rooms they passed through had suffered his boredom one way or the other: one had to admire his zest, really, seeing how he had turned the cupola in the parlour into a gravity-defying swimming pool, and managed an almost perfect silverware-replica of the Eiffel Tower in the ballroom.

"Ah", Belial said as they reached a smaller version of the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles. "Pardon me, Fujimoto-kun."

And with that, he swept him up bridal-style and stepped onto the hall floor, where all the checkerboard marble tiles seemed to be in disarr-

*di-da-do-do-di-da-do-do, di-da-do-do-di-da-do-do*

"What the _hell _is this…?" he asked, eyes wide as Belial _danced _back and forth on floor tiles that gave off _sound_.

"A piano", he replied, completely unfazed as he skipped this-way-and-that, slowly making his way across the hall. "His highness is quite fond of the opening theme of _Shinbatto no bouken_. If played incorrectly, the floor will fall away: we lost two maids and one manservant before we could establish which melody was the right one."

Shiro kept his mouth shut rather than accidentally making Belial miss a step. A bored Mephisto was a danger to everyone.

"Say, Belial-san…" Past the piano-hall, Shiro decided to ask something that had slipped his mind before, but that had him rather curious when he remembered it. "Have you ever called Samael by name?"

Good thing he hadn't asked in the hall of mirrors: just like the snake demon at Hyakki Yagyou, Belial winced ever so slightly.

"No, Fujimoto-kun, I have not."

"Why?" he inquired as casually as he could, and shifted his satchel of ammunition to appear even more relaxed and not-curious-as-hell.

"I do not see why that should matter to you."

"Then good luck with your master: I'm out."

"Pardon?" Belial turned around to see Shiro stop by a door carved in silver oak, rest his crutches against the wall, and take out his cram school key.

"What, you think demons are the only ones to demand services-in-return?" His white eyebrows rose over expressionless eyes. "It's just one question: why don't you say his name?"

Belial wasn't exactly happy… but he was also desperate. Desperate, fatigued, and anxious: the schooled, professional face didn't show it, and no restless fingers betrayed it, but Shiro knew. If asked, he would chance a guess it had to do with the imprint: because he actually _knew_.

"No demon would take his highness' name in his mouth", Belial said in curt, unwilling syllables. "It's cursed."

"Cursed? How does a _demon _have a cursed name?"

At this, the butler's thin lips drew a scornful line on his face.

"Names are powerful things, young man", he replied in a soft, polite voice. "One name may be spoken carelessly by a human, but in a demon's mouth it turns into ash and lye."

"Last question, then." Shiro put his key back in his pocket, signalling that he wasn't going to try Belial's patience much longer. "Why was he given a cursed name?"

The demon's narrow eyes grew wider, as did his smirk.

"The only one to know that would be Lord Satan: why don't you ask his majesty yourself, when his majesty comes for you?" Shiro tried his best… but couldn't keep the cruel statement from hardening his eyes. "For now, I think we will reach the kitchen just in time to try the dessert the Lord's son has made."

Shiro had taken it for miasma at first, but the black smoke trickling over the arced ceiling was precisely that: black smoke. It smelled of something that could have been roasted almonds, or coal.

* * *

The kitchen looked deceptively undisturbed; like a crocodile pretending to be a log. There was a profound lack of drawers and cutlery, though. And people. There wasn't a single person there, save for a tied-up Ukobach chattering protests from among the pots and pans that hung on hooks around the stove. Maybe he had tried to protect his kitchen: maybe he followed the same code of honour as captains that go down with their ships when the rest of the crew flees.

"You're not seriously thinking of serving that to anyone, are you?" Shiro stated to get the attention of the invading chef.

Mephisto's Hello Kitty-clips came into view from behind one of the stoves, followed by a flour-speckled countenance and a sheet pan of… uh… never mind what those were supposed to be.

"And why not?" he asked irritably. One look at his face told Shiro that he probably hadn't slept since the meeting, and that his patience was worn rice paper-thin. Good.

"For one, they seem to be burning holes through the sheet pan." Shiro produced the ammunition from his satchel and held it up for Mephisto to see. "And I figured you'd be more interested in this: latest issue of _Shoujo Comic_, so fresh from the printing press you can smell the ink." He assumed Mephisto could, even if all he felt was the crusty tang of burnt carbohydrates. Shiro flipped the pages with the smooth elegance of one showcasing products on tv-shop, and watched the sheet pan creak and crinkle like tin foil in Mephisto's polka-dotted oven gloves. "But seeing as you're busy, I'll just take a seat and wait 'til you're done."

Shiro limped over to fetch a stool from the corner, feeling Mephisto's gaze locked on like laser sight to the magazine in his hand. He placed himself strategically right next to the oven the demon was abusing, tilted to lean his back against the wall, and flipped open _Shoujo Comic_. This wouldn't take long: he could already hear a faint, pained whine trying to hide under the hum of the stove fan's death rattles. Shared agony is half agony, simply because the other half is comprised of glee.

Two things can generally be said of demons: they indulge unabashedly in every pleasure they desire, and they are masters at temptation.

Two things can generally be said of humans: they fight demons, and shield themselves from their temptations with restraint.

If there is anything unnatural for a demon to do, it is to abstain from pleasure; if there is anything unnatural for a human to do, it is to befriend a demon. And at the peak of the bizarre anomaly that was their friendship, Shiro brought it to a whole new level still: how often do you hear of a human tempting a demon?

"That _has _to be cheating", Mephisto ground out between clenched teeth as he struggled to keep his hands steady when pouring batter into paper cups. It would appear he was trying to make cupcakes. It would also appear he favoured aprons with lace trimming.

"Oh, I don't think so~ I'm not exactly shoving it under your nose and forcing you to read, am I? You're free to puff on a cigarette in front of me, if you feel this is unfair", he grinned, and threw a glance at Mephisto's unusually twitchy movements as he turned another page.

*poof!*

"Have one." A shiny black packet of _Peace_ plopped down in Shiro's lap. "As long as you do it under the fan, I will even let you smoke indoors."

Shiro could not hide his expression: he was _that _desperate? O-hoho, bad move, Mephisto~

"The true virtue of mankind is restraint, wasn't that what you said once?" he smiled graciously as he tucked the packet into his chest pocket. "It's only been two days: I can go without for a week at least. That's, oh, five more days like this…?"

Mephisto sagged over the workbench with an agonized groan, and the curl on his head wilted like a sad flower: with that sweet sight on his retina, Shiro might actually have been able to go five more days.

"Sometimes I wonder which one of us is the demon…"

"Your own fault for imprinting me", Shiro smiled into the pages. "_That's right: gotta ask him about that later, when he's cooled down. He won't be in any talkative mood after he's lost._"

Belial was having the time of his life. His jaw was clenched as tightly as Mephisto's, but the convulsive contractions of his throat muscles suggested it wasn't because he was irritated. No, he was laughing: laughing, because neither he nor any other demon would dream of doing anything like this. Demon society, demon rules: takes a reckless human idiot to break them.

"Hm, I think I'll skip this one", Shiro mused aloud and leafed ahead. "_Kaze to Ki no Uta_ looks more like your kind of thing. Are they even allowed to publish stuff like this in girls' magazines…?"

Mephisto's hair curl reared up, like an antenna homing in on good news. Shiro knew perfectly well that _Kaze to Ki no Uta _was Mephisto's thing, of course: the manga had been refused publishing for nine years because of its… content.

"That, is a tragic and captivating story of _masterful _proportions; not something an uncultivated plebeian like you can appreciate!"

"Watch where you're waving that spatula, you might get batter on the mag."

Any more now, and there would be steam coming out of his pointy ears: Shiro was enjoying himself – how to say? – _royally_.

"You sadistic little creep…!" he whined, hands clenching in frustration and curl ticking like an eyebrow would.

"At your service", Shiro said, spreading his hands with a pleasant smile: Mephisto's starving eyes followed the colourful magazine like… "_Like a dog with a scrap of dried liver._" Shiro moved the magazine up… down…right… left… Mephisto followed its every move with transfixed eyes. "You're dripping batter on the floor, your highness", he enlightened sweetly.

Mephisto snapped out of his trance with a mortified look: his ears pulled down, and his mouth turned into the kind of squiggly line you would see his stick figures endowed with. And in his eyes… the last threads snapped. He snatched the magazine out of Shiro's hand and poofed away with a growl that sounded like "you win".

"Well, that's that." He took his glasses off and used the apron Mephisto had left behind to wipe cupcake batter off the glass. "He might sulk for a few days, but he should leave the mansion alone."

"We are all deeply grateful, Fujimoto-kun." Belial made quick work of untying Ukobach, who immediately set to salvage what could be salvaged of his beloved kitchen. "Would you like to stay for dinner? Ukobach says he will cook whatever you-"

"Thanks", he said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture, "but what I really want right now is a smoke; and whatever he says, I don't trust he'd let me smoke indoors. I have to catch up on studies 'cause of the withdrawal headaches, too. So, uh, good luck with everything, and… hope you can piece the place back together."

"Very well: goodbye, and good luck with your studies." Belial bowed and, with the faintest hint of a smile, added: "I pity any demon that crosses your path when you have graduated."

* * *

Shiro took his time, walking down from the mansion on the summit to the student dorms. With any luck, Saburota would be occupied with work when he got back. Cigarettes taste better when you smoke them outdoors, anyway.

"_Cursed name, huh?_" Tch, it was really slow going, downhill on crutches: Saburota would be sleeping rather than working. "_Like outpacing thought…_" Still didn't know what that meant, but… "_Sounds like you'd have personal reasons to help the Order against your dad._"


	18. 70: Unexpected side-effects

**A/N: This is a transitional chapter, **but I thought I should make something of it: so I'm dedicating this to the world's teachers. Haven't you ever wondered what it's like to be employed by a demon…? Now, as a child of two teachers, I grew up hearing what school is like behind the scenes: foremost, I got to hear what teachers really think of their students – and superiors. I had tons of anecdotes to pick from, so this might pull in all kinds of directions, but I try staying as true as I can to the original statements and quotes here. I hope it can spark your imagination regarding this largely unexplored aspect of AnE (in other words, I hope to make people write fics from the TCA-teachers' perspectives so I can read them).

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Shiro had never been on good terms with his history teacher. He wasn't quite sure if it started with her dislike for his bleached hair, or that time he had been caught folding origami animals out of his history test. He thought he sat safely at the back of the classroom when he did that, but Maki-sensei was the kind of woman whose eyes somehow seemed to get better with age rather than worse.

All things considered, he found it very strange that his Ansei period essay was returned with a coupon for the school cafeteria stapled onto the last page. That had to be a mistake: but you don't look a gift horse in the mouth, and the cafeteria certainly served classier food than anything he could cook in the dorm kitchen.

* * *

Shiro had no gift for English. Akuri-sensei was well aware that he spent his English classes wishing for the buttons in her shirt to pop off: or so he had to assume, since she had unbuttonedtwo of them today and actually _smiled_ at him when she walked past and… bent forward… to inspect his writing… or something like that dear god she had boobs like honeydews and something about the difference between g and q in minuscule lette-

Akuri-sensei appreciated that he had turned away to avoid getting nose blood on her white shirt, and told him he could keep the napkin.

* * *

"How are you, Shiro-kun?"

It's the small things, the small everyday things, that really hurt when they're taken away from you. How was he? He was far away, living by proxy to keep up the pretence that he was-

"Fine. You two?"

He heard himself speak as if it were someone else. Well, wasn't it? The skin he wore may be the same, but the Shiro in it was different. A prodigy, a paragon; a hero statue coated with a bronze surface to cover the cold stone from which it was hewn.

He didn't tell Sen to stop asking when they met, though. It hurt, to be treated like nothing had happened; but it helped him act like nothing had. It helped him remember how to act like a normal human being.

"We decided Midori will visit my village over summer", she said as if speaking to daydreams and dust motes. She made a strange, lonesome little island in the chattering ocean that was the Academy cafeteria.

"That sounds great. Wish I could have a proper summer holiday, but I'm gonna stay here and study."

"I want~" Midori exchanged looks of fevered passion with his food, and didn't seem to notice a word of what had been said. "Do you really like girls, Shiro-kun? Or you just like girls to hit you?"

Then again, it was hard not to notice the rolls of paper sticking out of his nostrils.

"It was my teacher, and she didn't- well, you could say she hit me. Figuratively." Not the reply the old Shiro would have given. Not the smile the old Shiro would have smiled. "_Caution before comfort_", he reminded himself grimly. There were a lot of people in the cafeteria. A lot of people he could hurt, if he didn't guard his heart well enough.

What he had done to Saburota yesterday was proof he couldn't trust himself. He didn't even need to be possessed to cause harm: all he needed was a hint of weakness to wake the predator in the dark corners of his heart. Guard his heart, guard his tongue, guard the people arou-

"Shiiiiirooooo-kuuuun~?" Midori resorted to flicking the cross on his glasses string to gain his attention. "Can I taste your food?"

"Oh, sure. Just leave some for me, it's the only time I'll have the chance to eat such fancy stuff."

As if. Midori could eat twice her own weight every day – or something like that. Her table manners were like a vanishing act at the circus, accompanied by a variety of chirping and humming sounds that had Shiro thinking of Mephisto's content purrs when he was being brushed.

"How come you buy cafeteria food now, suddenly?" Sen asked, taking small, small bites of her bento box.

"It's the teachers: they like me." And not just the teachers: besides the food, he had been given a lavender pannacotta topped with Scandinavian bilberries on the side, with no explanation whatsoever save a smile and a wink from the cafeteria lady. "No teacher has ever liked me, and now they buy me food. I don't get it."

"What did you do for them, then?"

"Nothing." He cautiously sliced the creamy dessert, trying hard to make his aching fingers hold the spoon. "I improved my grades, but they hardly give stuff like this to every student that puts some muscle into studying. I'm thinking they could be ganging up on me for some practical joke."

It was a possibility. Technically, it was only a month until he graduated; if they were ever going to get revenge on the school's most notorious prankster, they would have to make their move now.

"Shagow of min-g can cova de shun", Midori managed to say through a mouthful – really, a mouth _full_ – of food. "Maybe dey jusch wang ko make Shiwo-kung happy?"

Maybe. All Shiro could think of was how she chose just the right words: the shadow of mind can cover the sun. Did she even think when she said it? Or did she act on the same kind of instinct, inherent in demons, that he had felt? She worried for him, he knew that, and still…

Shiro looked at her stuffed cheeks and content eyes: a mask. That he made her wear. To make it easier to wear his own.

It's the small, everyday things that really hurt. Pretending… hurt.

* * *

His maths teacher didn't chew his ass for the 70% he scored at the test. The hastily written physics report he had handed in last week came back with a not-very-good-but-better-than-it-deserved grade. And when Shiro was about to exit the classroom after demonology class, Kohu-sensei discreetly passed him a small paper bag.

"Sensei, what is-"

"Why don't you come to the teachers' break room when you finish for the day, hm?" she suggested, her smiling eyes framed by merry wrinkles.

"Uh…?"

That's it: it _was _some sort of payback the teachers had planned for him. And yet it was far too obvious to summon him to the break room like tha- What if he'd gotten intro trouble somehow? What if somebody had ratted on him for something he'd done back in the day he had time to be a nuisance? No; why would they be so strangely kind to him if that were the case…?

Meanwhile, Kohu-sensei left him with his musings and the smell of homemade daifuku from the paper bag. Shiro fumbled to get the door open without dropping his crutches, to hop after her and ask what this was all about, but ended up almost colliding with his Aria teacher.

"S'cuse me, sensei, I need to-"

"Is it true?"

It was always difficult to read Goggles-sensei's face, or what was left of it: but this time the lidless, staring eyes matched her voice perfectly.

"I don't think I know what you mean, Go- uh, Nao-sensei", he confessed.

"Did you make Sir Pheles wear a… a _suit _to the personnel meeting?"

"Oh. Well, yes." That's right: Mephisto would be wearing normal clothes now. "For a week, that is."

"Just a week?" she said absentmindedly, and the goggles she was nicknamed after moved as her forehead crinkled. Then she hurried along, mumbling something that sounded like "I need to borrow a camera."

* * *

He would not believe it. He would _not _believe that this… that all these weird things and teachers suddenly liking him, was because Mephisto was wearing something that didn't look like he had stolen it from a circus.

…but curiosity won't be stilled by anything less than certainty. The teachers' break room was a place he had, for natural reasons, avoided at all costs. He had some remote idea that alarms would go off the moment he set foot inside the door, triggered by lingering karmic traces of all the things he had gotten away with over the years.

No alarms went off, and he successfully managed to ease the door shut without sound. It could still be a prank. Shiro used very small, very careful hops to transport himself inside the antechamber quietly.

The room wasn't very big. It contained one rack for outdoors shoes and one for slippers, and the entirety of the left wall was covered by a large set of named lockers for teachers to leave notes and documents for each other. The opposite wall had an equally large notice board, where Shiro spotted several yellowed newspaper articles about the school, and photographs of the staff taken at jubilees and graduation ceremonies. There was also a calendar, in which someone had marked today's date with a bright red circle that did nothing to put his suspicions to rest.

"Teaching would be a lot more enjoyable without students."

That was Futotsuki-sensei's voice from behind the door to the actual break room. He sounded unusually… dejected.

"Anything we can help you with, Futotsuki-kohai?"

And that would be Kohu-sensei, the demonology teacher.

"You can help me hang them from a washing line by their eyelids", he grumbled.

"That class again?"

"That class again." His sigh was punctuated with the sound of papers being tossed on a table. "What will become of society when our generation is gone, Kohu-senpai? What will become of Japan when we leave the reins to blockheads that can't even draw protective circles?"

"With any luck, we'll be dead before we find out", she replied, and Shiro couldn't really tell if it was a joke or not. "I won't mind: I lived long enough to witness a miracle. Sir Pheles in a suit. I still can't quite believe it."

"Neither can I." Gokuro-sensei sounded far from his usual, stammering stage-frighted self in P.E. class. "For the first time, I left salary negotiations with a smile on my lips!"

"Though not with raised salary." Watanabe-sensei, Shiro's maths' teacher…? _Everyone _was there?

"Raised salary? Why don't you have your graduate students calculate the probability for that on the spring exams, Watanabe-kohai?" Maki-sensei butted in with a smile in her voice. "Or is it more than five decimals from zero…?"

"If I do that, my salary will be more than five decimals from zero", he chuckled. Shiro had to hop closer to the door to be sure he heard that right. Maths teachers could _chuckle_…?

"I wouldn't have cared if he had cut my pay in half", Gokuro-sensei continued in a voice that bordered on religious rapture. "So many times I've wanted to stuff that cravat into his mouth…"

Muffled laughter from beyond the door agreed unanimously to the statement.

"At least you can blink." Goggles-sensei's strong voice was, for the first time Shiro could recall, tinted with amusement. "I have to stare at that hideous getup whether I like it or not: if it were up to me, I'd shove those tights right down there with the cravat."

"No matter what comes out of your mouth, Nao-senpai, all I hear is different ways to get Sir Pheles' pants off", Ando-sensei said in the driest, most disapproving tone Shiro had ever heard from the Dragoon instructor.

"Well, you can't deny he's a handsome devil – not after today's meeting", she laughed. "For once I was glad I can't blink."

"_Goggles-sensei…?_" Shiro would have to severely re-evaluate his thoughts on his Aria teacher.

"That's a very inappropriate way to speak of one's superiors – not to mention a demon", Ando-sensei said curtly. "What kind of values do we teach students by saying such things?"

"Oh, come now, Ando-kohai! Had it been a _Lady_ Pheles you would have said the exact same thing!" Kohu-sensei teased merrily. "Let women have their unattainable dreams: we are merely crinklier versions of the teenage girls we tutor, after all."

…Shiro would have to re-evaluate his thoughts on his demonology teacher, too.

"Teenage girls? More like hens around a rooster. Did you even notice that you agreed to another two hours of unpaid extracurricular work per week? Or were you too busy admiring his waistline?"

"Well, Ando-kohai: did you notice that you agreed to cut down the budget for practice range ammunition with five hundred thousand yen last month~?" said Toshio-sensei with deceptive sweetness. "What did _you _admire that had you so distracted?"

"Admire? There's a reason we use bullets to negotiate with demons rather than words", he grumbled. "And I could put one right between that smirking clown's eyes."

"And that's not an inappropriate way to speak of your superiors?" Goggles-sensei jabbed with a chuckle.

"An ordinary bullet", the Dragoon instructor clarified. "He would regenerate that. Then I could shoot him again: sooner or later, when I run out of bullets, he will have to buy more."

"I doubt it would make him inclined to buy you any more ammunition, but I do like the idea. While you're at it, see if you can get him to approve a purchase of new course literature in history: time doesn't stand still, even if Sir Pheles appears to think so."

"Speaking of time, Maki-senpai: are you certain Fujimoto-kun will come?" Akuri-sensei was the one asking that? Something stirred in Shiro's closed heart that told him it might pay off to try harder in English class.

"He will", Maki-sensei confirmed with a kind of dry, humorous note in her voice. "As surely as civil unrest follows famine, that blonde delinquent goes wherever he can stir up a ruckus."

"He has improved greatly, though", Toshio-sensei – of all people, _Toshio-sensei? _– joined in. "Both in sword technique and in character." Then he chuckled. "I wonder, could it be that it takes one demon to tame another? I'm quite sure his change came about after Sir Pheles began tutoring him."

"One evil cancels out another? Maybe. I wouldn't mind if that kind of change began to show in Sir Pheles, too. I really do hope to get a week's vacation – _proper _vacation, not vacation with paperwork attached – to visit my grandchildren."

"Good evening, Fujimoto-kun", said a voice that made Shiro jump. When he turned around, his demon pharmacology teacher had just entered the antechamber.

"Good evening, Matsuri-sensei." He began the endeavour of untying his shoelaces and pretended he had just arrived. "It took a while to get here. I-"

"Let me help you with that. It's the least I can do." It was more surprise than gratitude that made him surrender the task of getting his shoes off to her. "I didn't believe you were the one behind it, at first, but then I remembered your Esquire exam in the Hakkoda mountains, and it occurred to me: who else could pull off something that outlandish?" She cast a quick glance and a smile up at him. "Exorcising a naga from a wok pan: has me smiling every time I think about it."

When Shiro entered with Matsuri-sensei, he found that he was surprised to see his teachers there. Part of him had believed it was strangers impersonating their voices. Really, Goggles-sensei had a thing for Mephisto?

The break room was classy, as everything about True Cross Academy was. The furniture was dressed in lush, mauve leather that complimented the white walls and gave off an air of sophisticated cleanliness. Shiro couldn't remember feeling so out of place since he had testified at the hearing in Headquarters over Christmas.

Even more so when Akuri-sensei approached in the downpour of _thank yous _and handed him a flower bouquet the size of an akita inu.

"Thank you, Akuri-sensei." He tried to get a good grip on the flowers without dropping his crutches. "Thank you everyone", he said through the thick smell of carnations, dahlias, and some yellow flower that seemed dead set on getting swallowed.

"I think it's better if we find a vase for them, Aki-chan", Matsuri-sensei said with a smile. "Fujimoto-kun has his hands full already."

An adorable blush crept up on Akuri-sensei's cheeks when she remembered the crutches: Shiro supported them awkwardly in the crook of his arm. She hurriedly excused herself, and more or less hid behind the bouquet after she had relieved him of it. Both female teachers left for the staff kitchen to find a vase and, after a quick reminder from Futotsuki-sensei, brew some tea.

"How is your nose, Fujimoto-kun?" Kohu-sensei asked once the English teacher was out of earshot. Why did she smile like that? Wasn't she, like, 64 years old? Were 64 year-olds allowed to insinuate things like that…?

"Um…"

"It was probably worth it", Maki-sensei filled in with a chuckle when the awkwardness painted the tips of his ears red. "I'm sure you would pay attention in my class too, if I were younger and better equipped."

One of the few joys old people have left in life is to make young people uncomfortable; and by the age of 60, they have all the experience they need to make the most of it. Enough to make the red heat spread from Shiro's ears to his cheeks.

"Not bad, to make young men blush at your age, Maki-kohai", Kohu-sensei tittered merrily and patted her approval on her colleague's shoulder. "Ah, poor Fujimoto-kun: it's not easy to be a man."

"So many drawbacks right from birth", the history teacher concluded with an impish glimmer in her eyes that completely jammed Shiro's speech mechanism.

"That's why we call them the yokai yakuza." Toshio-sensei appeared behind the two old ladies with a wide grin and a tray full of teacups. "She was just as bad when I was a student", he informed, nodding his head in Maki-sensei's direction. "But prettier to look at."

An incredulous smile grew on Shiro's lips as Toshio-sensei retreated from the mock slaps and began laying the high-legged, Western table for tea. Teachers were completely different when they weren't teaching…

"Now, regale us with the tale behind this miracle", Watanabe-sensei said as they all seated themselves while Akuri-sensei poured them tea. The humongous flower bouquet spilled over the edges of a deep tureen on the middle of the table. "How did you convince Sir Pheles to wear sensible clothing?"

"Well, he's a demon: he loves gambling. I bet that I could go longer without smoking than he could go without manga, anime and games. No way he could win that."

A tidal wave of giggles and snorting chuckles – and a weird, hiccupping laughter from Matsuri-sensei – swept through the break room.

"I knew it! Hahahaha! With all those children's toys he keeps on his desk!"

"_He_ keeps-?" Akuri-sensei, who was by far the youngest of the teachers, looked from one to the other in confusion. "I thought they belonged to his children…?"

There was an abrupt silence, punctuated by each and every teacher displaying a face of deep, heart-freezing terror.

"Miniature Pheleses: god help us all…"

"Imagine their chattering."

"Imagine their _clothing_."

"Imagine the extra hours of unpaid babysitting."

"Look at it from the bright side", Goggles-sensei grinned, painting the picture of a maniacal killer on her damaged features. "Great practice for the students."

When all tears were wiped and all cramping stomachs at ease, Akuri-sensei shyly returned to the matter:

"But, if he doesn't have children…? I'm sure I saw little children's drawings on his desk once."

"Don't you know, Aki-chan?" Ando-sensei said, wearing a much brighter look on his face than before. "Sir Pheles always draws on the back of the protocol at meetings: that's why he looks so concentrated."

Akuri-sensei looked even cuter with laughter tinting her cheeks pink – and her chest bounced in a most inviting way. Unfortunately, the sight of her now conjured up images of Shiro's history teacher…

"Still, he was a lot more concentrated than we were at this last meeting", Goggles-sensei chuckled into her teacup. "You did a great job there, Fujimoto-kun. He should wear clothes like that more often."

"He really should. For forty years I've seen him wear nothing but that ghastly clown costume: I never thought I would witness something like this before I retire."

"There is another tale behind this miracle that I would like to hear." Futotsuki-sensei always looked, and sounded, so very calm: Shiro couldn't quite fuse that impression with the irritated hanging-blockhead-students-by-their-eyelids-sensei he had eavesdropped on. "And that is the tale of how a teenage boy earned the respect of a centuries-old demon."

The statement was met with a chorus of low hums and nods, and Shiro instantly wished he were someplace else.

"I don't know about respect…" He scratched the back of his head and tried not to squirm under their eyes. "Most of the time we just get on each other's nerves, and make sport of it. That's how the bet came about. That's how most things come about. I figure…" Shiro wet his lips, not sure what words to put on it. "I treat him the same as I would treat anyone else, and he- Well, obviously, I don't know what he's like around other people, but he pretty much acts the same towards me as I do towards him. If anything, we share a mutual disrespect for each other. We seem to…" Shiro fumbled for words as if they were windblown leaves. "…fit together." Wrong words. "I mean, we make odd friends, but good friends. That's it", he concluded awkwardly. "That's the tale behind the miracle."

They all looked at him as if they hadn't understood a word. Well, he wasn't sure he had understood explanation himself.

"That… is something I never thought I would witness before I retire", Kohu-sensei said with soft amazement, cup forgotten in her hand halfway to her mouth.

"Me neither: Futotsuki-senpai, are you sure he isn't related to your clan?"

"I'll be damned." Toshio-sensei's large, calloused Knight's hand landed on Futotsuki-sensei's shoulder. "You were right: a demon charmer he is."

"A what?" Astonishment is easy to recognise, but it's harder to determine whether the cause for it is something good or bad.

"It is what it sounds like, Fujimoto-kun", the Tamer teacher said with a reassuring look. "Someone with a natural talent for handling demons. I said it the first lesson we had together, remember? You have the makings of an excellent Tamer, and an exceptional exorcist. What I saw between you and Sir Pheles at the meeting with my clan was nothing short of a miracle. In six semesters, you have come closer to him than we have in twenty, thirty, or even forty years. We", he gestured at the staff of teachers, "teach what demons are, what they do, how they can be fought; all from a human perspective. But _you_", he leaned towards Shiro with a proud smile, as if sharing a treasured secret. "You understand demons as a demon would, and that makes you exceptional. That makes you someone even Sir Pheles would respect, and makes you unlike any other student we have at True Cross Academy. It is a gift, a true gift, and an asset that exorcists worldwide will envy you."

Each well-meant word was a bullet ricocheting with jarring dissonance against the truth he kept shielded in his heart. Fujimoto Shiro, Satan's vessel: unlike any other student at the Academy indeed.

"You honour me, Futotsuki-sensei", he said through an empty smile, steeling his façade against the admiring gazes that shone on him: shielding the shadow of his mind against the sun. "You all do. Thank you."

A smile is a dagger: a slow dagger, slipping in between your ribs, not noticed until it strikes your heart.

"_I just never thought… the smile would be my own..._" The weight of loneliness is heaviest in a crowd of people, and heavier still when the crowd applauds the act you put up to hide it: heaviest of all are the corners of your mouth, when you keep the act going. The slowest death is the smile that kills you every time you wear it. "_Does everything you say come true, Midori-chan?_"


	19. 71: The clothes make the man

**A/N: I had to do this.**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

****Seeing is believing, they say. Not that he was _that_ curious. Mephisto was apparently not sulking over the lost bet, and Shiro had questions that needed to be asked: in all, plenty of reasons to pay a visit to the large, classy office. Plenty of reasons; none being that he was curious to see if Mephisto really looked _that _good in normal clothes.

"Oi. What spell have you worked on the teachers, you old goat?" he greeted as he pushed one of the double doors open with his shoulder.

"I can only think of the one called 'salary', but other than that: none", came the answer: not from behind the desk, but from the panorama windows overlooking most of True Cross Town.

Shiro blinked. He shouldn't be surprised anymore. He'd seen Mephisto the Demon King, Mephisto the Failed Chef, Mephisto the Pampered Dog… Weird as they were, clashing as they did, those had been perfectly real sides of Mephisto: _this_… this wasn't Mephisto.

This was someone who could actually grab the spot as The Most Desirable Man in Europe and East Asia. Without even breaking a sweat.

"Like what you see~?"

Definitely Mephisto when he opened his mouth, though; not to mention he gestured at himself like one presenting a five-star buffet.

"And for all your talk of dressing properly, you keep that hidden at the far back of your wardrobe?" Shiro stared at the tailor-fitted black suit that cut his slender shape a most complimenting silhouette against the window. Burgundy shirt, black tie, black dress shoes and white spatterdashes… The clothes certainly make the man. "Seriously, did you get anything done at the personnel meeting? As I've understood it, all the female teachers were busy gawking at your waist and legs and god knows what."

And Shiro had the strangest idea… that maybe that was the reason Mephisto dressed the way he did. That clownish outfit drew one's attention like a nail in the eye, but at least the weirdness of it let you keep your head: when he dressed like this, without that disturbance to throw the effect off, there was a magnetizing air about him that drew your attention and derailed your thoughts at the same time.

"Oh, I knew where their eyes lingered~" Look at that smug face, when he came sauntering over from the windows: and how he _walked_…

"_Those ugly pants really hide it well normally…_" He walked with Midori's smooth, subconscious sensuality, and the innate elegance of a king. "_I don't hear a word he's saying, that's kinda nice… I should probably snap out of whatever-he's-doing, though…_"

"-can blame them?" Mephisto's amused lilt phased into his ears. "Indeed, the smell of pheromones in that room was so thick I had to turn the air conditioning on. Poor things, tied like dogs on leashes too short for them to reach the bone~"

"And Nao-sensei is probably off buying a camera", Shiro chuckled, hopping forward on his crutches to occupy one of the least antique and least brick-hard chairs. "Now I know why you dress like a clown normally: couldn't run a business looking like this."

Yes, of course. Of course. Dressed for business, eh? Wearing his principal's uniform, he looked like a clown: wearing this, he looked like a devil. Sleek, black deceit robed in perfect propriety. Couldn't run a business with the Vatican looking like that.

"Looking like…?" the demon led on with a flirtatious smirk: dog or humanoid, being stroked along the grain was something he appreciated.

Shiro assumed a sceptical look. Saying Mephisto wasn't handsome in that outfit would be lying, but admitting that he was would make his head so large every passage in the Academy would have to be converted into double doors.

"Right: I will only say this once, so perk up those big ears of yours." Shiro was, after all, there to ask help: stroking the dog a bit before he asked couldn't hurt. He braced himself in the chair… "You look really good in that." …and Mephisto's ego filled the office like the blaring of a brass orchestra: loud, piercing, and drowning out everything else within a fifty meter radius. Really, it took some effort not to burst out laughing. "Now, if you wouldn't mind getting back down on earth, I've got stuff I need to ask."

Mephisto disappeared, and reappeared lounging in a chair right in front of him, snug and comfortable in his bolstering Ego.

"Do tell…?"

"The imprint", Shiro commenced in business tones. "Can it change me physically?"

"No." And all the same, he raised a cautioning finger. White gloves? Classy bastard. "However, your imprint is not like the ones observed in the Futotsuki, and diverging effects can not be ruled out." His wrist tipped the finger forward to point the question at Shiro: "I take it you have reason to suspect it would have changed you physically?"

Shiro related his wrestling with the tengu during the attack on Kiridani Ryokan, and how he had not only broken its neck but also cracked its beak with his bare hands.

"I shouldn't be able to do that." He held up his hands in front of him. "And ever since, I've had this dull ache in my fingers. The imprint was the only explanation I could think of."

"That is… interesting." The demon rose to examine his hands, possibilities flitting across the green eyes as they scrutinized them closely. Mephisto's gloved fingers turned and pushed and prodded, and Shiro confirmed where there was pain and where there wasn't. "Interesting indeed." In the blink of an eye, the demon's fingers had left his hand for his wrist, and pulled him up from the chair and into a one-armed embrace. The other hand let go, and rose in a familiar gesture. "In the mood for a little trip~?"

*poof!*


	20. 72: King and castle

**A/N:**

**Dear "hi"  
**I can't reply to reviews left anonymously, but I wanted to say that yours really brought a smile to my lips amidst the adrenaline-fuelled panic of exams. ^_^'  
It makes me truly happy that you – and so many others! – enjoy the story; and believe me, I would spend every waking moment writing if I could. As it is, I  
write on the bus, on the train, during lunch break, every night before drifting off to sleep and every morning before I go to school. But I also study chemistry,  
physics, maths, and biology at a pace three times the normal, so when exams start raining down I can't write as much as I'd like to. ^_^' Any torture is  
entirely unintentional (…for the most part). ;9 I hope you can be patient with me.

**/ Dimwit**

**Special thanks to Zeitdieb, **for helping out with German and for the glorious _Serving You, Serving Me!_ one-shot! Perfect idea, perfectly executed~ x3 All  
you people should go read it. Like, now. It's hilarious, it's clever, it's sweet, and it's all I could ever ask of a ShiroxMephisto fic~ ;9

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

"Gueh, I hate travelling like that." If Mephisto hadn't held a supporting arm around him, Shiro would've been on the ground by now. "Where are we?"

Outdoors, that much was for certain. It was dark, and light rain quickly turned the warm summer night into a chilly, miserable place to be. Shiro untangled himself from the demon and let his eyes wander.

"What is this place…?"

He squinted up at the towering shape through the raindrops on his glasses: a huge building cut its black silhouette into clouds lit faintly by city light.

"Wawel castle is its name: one of the finest cultural treasures Poland has to offer – that and _ptasie mleczko_. Not that you are normally inclined to follow advice of any kind", he added with a meaning glance, "but I strongly recommend that you stay where you are for a while."

Mephisto snapped his fingers again, and the rain-dimmed light reflected in spotless glass and polished metal: a gigantic pendulum hung in the sky over the castle, topped by an old-fashioned pocket watch of same proportions.

"I ask you a simple yes-or-no question, and you spirit me away to Poland?"

But Mephisto was already out of earshot, carried up to the top of the pendulum by his bat familiar. Four more glimmering shapes – which, after a quick wiping of his glasses, turned out to be huge skeleton keys – hovered around it at each compass point. The instant Mephisto touched down, the machinery of the watch began turning slowly.

"Acht, sieben, sechs…" There was a compression of the air around the castle, a shift in density that made Shiro's eardrums quiver and hurt. And then it reached him, from far-away distances not measured in meters or feet: the muted rustle of Earth breathing. "Fünf, vier, drei…" The arms on the clock face turned _backwards._ "Zwei, eins, null: Zurückdrehen!"

Shiro couldn't see anything in the dark, but he heard the ghostly sounds of mortar crumbling and stone shifting in the castle, as if it were a living creature stretching in its sleep. Ah, no; not sound. Not real sound, carried by compressions in the air: those were echoes, transported through the distant memories of the castle itself.

"Very little change since then, I admit." The rain stopped abruptly: Mephisto had landed beside him, and held the pink umbrella over Shiro's head while he admired his work. "But it's the inside that matters, as humans are so fond of telling themselves. Shall we?"

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

Mephisto halted, gave the matter some thought, and snapped his fingers: Shiro's crutches joined their company in a cloud of pink smoke.

Shiro followed him through a grand archway that seemed more like a small tunnel: and halfway through, they passed _something_.

The best way of describing it was probably the feeling of walking from a sweltering hot summer day into a heavily air-conditioned room; or from a freezing winter night into the organic warmth of a house heated by wood. Something washed over Shiro's body, shocked it on a molecular level, and left it with the sensation that it had transitioned an invisible barrier and ended up someplace vastly different.

Out on the courtyard on the other side, Mephisto brought his umbrella down: the rain had stopped. And it was mid-day.

"_Sure, he's the King of Time, but…_" But time travelling was only done in manga and anime. "_This is freakin' insane…_"

Sunlight warmed the wear-smoothened pavement under their feet, bounced off the gilded tip of the umbrella, and painted the courtyard arcades an eye-watering white.

"Okay, that was cool", he admitted, spotting the smug, inquiring look on Mephisto's face. "When is this…?"

"Sixteen hundred and four: Sigismund the third is on the throne, and had the great taste to commission a Baroque style for the reparations after the fire a few years ago."

…freakin' insane.

"Like that pocket dimension of yours, but a pocket in time? Around the castle?" Shiro's head turned every direction to take in what the world looked like in the seventeenth century.

"A tremendously simplified explanation, but yes. A pocket of sorts."

"Can you do the same thing the other way? Like, winding us into the future?"

That would be even cooler. He had, though he wouldn't admit it, checked who Jules Verne was after Mephisto had frowned upon his lack of education. And if Verne wrote about going to the moon nearly a hundred years before it happened, then maybe in the future there would be things that only existed in fiction today.

"_A _future", the demon corrected. "There are infinite possible futures branching from the present, each one shaped by choices made in the fleeting moment you call now."

Shiro understood that. Part of it. On a vague, theoretical level: as soon as the human mind is confronted with the concept of "infinite", thoughts tend not to go too far into understanding.

"So… you can't travel to the future?"

"Who do you take me for? I can travel to any future", he snorted. "It's bothersome, however. Even more bothersome to explain to a linear mind. The path to the future is strewn with endless forks, and constantly shifting such: arriving at _exactly_ the future you want is nigh impossible. The past is much easier: each dimension has only one, and it is fixed."

"And how many dimensions are there?"

Mephisto granted him an amused look before he twisted his brain one more turn:

"One for each branch of the future."

* * *

The porch swung open for them on heavy, creaking hinges, and they walked right into the castle. Not a single servant to greet them. Not a single guard to question what the two most bizarre guests were doing there.

And it was so quiet. Their footfalls echoed strangely in the painted, coffered ceilings of the lifeless rooms and gave a not entirely pleasant feeling that there was someone walking behind them, even if the castle… was completely devoid of life.

"Looks like a place you could live in", Shiro observed as they walked through yet another extravagant room, where the tiled floor was like a mirror and the carvings on the stone hearth reached higher than the doors.

"So I did, for a short time." With a snap of his fingers, all the candelabras flared up to light their way through a grand ceremonial hall hung with tapestries that each must've weighed at least twice as much as Shiro. "It was quite pleasant, as long as you had your own chef. The Polish cuisine is so…" A grimace marred his attempts at maintaining his refined manners. "…Polish."

"Awful?"

"No – and yes. The food tastes wonderful, but looks like it has been eaten once before."

Shiro laughed aloud, and felt the eyes of gossiping maidens, working carpenters and Oriental sultans turn to him from the woven images. That wasn't natural silence.

* * *

By the time Shiro neared the top of a long – far too long, if you were on crutches – staircase, he was breathing heavily. Mephisto simply waited at the second floor, one hand on his hip and the other on the handle of the umbrella, whose tip rested against the floor: put a frame around him and he would look just like the castle's other royal paintings.

"Think you could light me a smoke like that?" Shiro snapped his fingers the way Mephisto had done to light the candelabras. "C'mon, it's not your house", he tried, but knew it was a lost cause when that inrun-frown formed over the green eyes. Oh well. If the cause is lost anyway: "For a cripple facing fate uncertain: have you not the heart in you to ease my agony a tad before the final verdict falls…?"

"Oh my; the beast can talk?" Mephisto picked up on his theatrics with feigned astonishment. "And where is that nimble tongue when you aren't making mockery of it?" he asked, tilting his head to the side with an amused look.

"At the far back of the wardrobe, with your suit", Shiro smiled back and hopped up the last few steps. "Right, you unhelpful bastard: can I at least have my lighter back?" Poofing his lighter away had become so much habit that the demon did it subconsciously every time Shiro entered his office: Shiro had a vague memory that he had thought of switching pocket. He really should do that.

"Straight back into the wardrobe, is it?" Mephisto tapped a forefinger on his lip contemplatively. "We have one more flight of stairs to ascend; after that, you can have your lighter back."

"There's a catch, isn't there?" Shiro stated with an eyebrow raised. "I don't trust that smile of yours." Especially not after his humiliating loss in the bet: the only thing Mephisto was ever generous with was payback.

"And wisely so~" And with that, the demon turned on his heel and led the way through the next line of lavish rooms. "Do you find anything amiss with Wawel castle, Shiro?"

"There's no people", he said, casting glances left and right at huge portraits of stiff, royal Poles that ought to live in the castle right now.

"Quite so, quite so. Any idea why…?"

"'cause they're all- _that's _the staircase?" Shiro stared at Mephisto, and at the very high steps of the stairs behind the door he had opened. "_Oh you smug little bastard…_" Not just a staircase: a tower staircase. On crutches. "…any chance I could get you to poof me to the top?"

"You certainly could; but then you don't get your lighter." He tipped his upper body in a mock bow, accompanied by a sparkling grin. "I'll hear your answer at the top~"

*poof!*

Shiro started climbing the stairs with a stoic promise that he wouldn't let Mephisto get any fun out of this.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Ptasie mleczko – "unobtainable delicacy", a chocolate-covered meringue manufactured by the Wedel confectionary company (whose logo really does look like Willy Wonka's) since 1936.**


	21. 73: Guesswork galore

**A/N: *Reward to myself for having written the first of three exams.***

**Well… **guesses, guesses, and guesses. I make a lot of guesses in this chapter. ^_^' For those who like anecdotes and their possible applications to AnE, this  
will be a nice read.

**There has been some misunderstandings** in the past, so I'll just leave a note of it: whenever you encounter verse in this fic, it's original creations by me.  
I'm not quoting anything, I just write in a way that will make it sound like something taken from _Faust_. Whenever I quote Nietzsche or Sun Tzu or others, I  
leave a little note of it at the bottom.

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Shiro finished climbing the stairs with stumble-bruised shins a snarled promise that Mephisto would pay dearly for this.

"Lighter. Now. Man, I need a smoke…!"

"Look at you, all flushed and short of breath: perfect." Oh yes, bloody perfect; Shiro had half a mind to wipe his forehead with Mephisto's silk tie.  
"You can have the lighter, as promised." He felt the cool weight of the lighter reappear in his trouser pocket. "But I'm afraid smoking is out of the  
question."

"You think so? 'cause I think you knew that well beforehand, asshole", Shiro grumbled.

"Your assumption is quite correct, although your language is not."

Shiro was not in the best of moods, but he would admit that the room was not a suitable place for open flame.

The top of the tower held a laboratory: the kind of which you could imagine in horror stories. But everything was new. Brand new. No lingering crust  
of dried blood, no rust-eaten scalpels littering smeared examination tables: everything was neat and tidy and… old. It was centuries since instruments  
like those had been in use, and yet they looked like they had been manufactured yesterday.

There were wooden racks from floor to ceiling containing empty vials, and other racks of full vials with freshly scribbled labels. Beakers and metal  
utensils were kept neatly organized in cupboards with stainless glass doors, and bright sunlight glinted off steel armature and polished stone floor.

"You were faster than I had expected", Mephisto said over his shoulder: he stood at a workbench with at least a dozen vials and instruments  
gyrating around him, each busy with its own part of some experiment. "Be good and strip while I add the finishing touches."

"What?" No, he must've heard that wrong…

"Strip. Undress. Remove articles of clothing from your person." Mephisto swaggered across the room with one hand on his hip and a smug  
trademark smirk. "Purely for scientific reasons, of course~" He ran Shiro's tie between his fingers in a manner not even remotely scientific.

"Of course it is. And in purely scientific interest", he yanked his tie out of the demon's grasp, "I wanna know why. You're asking me to strip-"

"That would be convenient, yes."

"-and we're in seventeenth century Poland-"

"Quite correct."

"-and how the fuck does that have anything to do with my imprint?"

"Heated your temper along with your body, did it~? Why, we are here to determine what is happening to your body, of course; and the examination  
will yield more reliable readings if it has just recently been active." He gestured at the tower room the stood in. "This laboratory is better equipped  
than any modern-day facility I have access to for performing an examination of that kind. By the way…" Mephisto tilted Shiro's head up with a finger  
under his chin and looked closely at him. "You are out of breath, but you aren't _fatigued_ – am I correct? Your legs and arms still feel fresh and strong?"

After a moment's thinking, Shiro nodded.

"I may already have an idea… but I want to be absolutely certain." Mephisto whipped around and returned to the workbench and the… stuff… that he  
was assembling. "Take a seat once you have removed shirt and trousers, the preparations are almost complete. I will also require a blood sample, so  
do make use of your Doctor training while you're at it."

Seat? The only seat in the room was the large examination table in the middle. It came with some highly suspicious leather straps for securing,  
well, say, a human body.

"Purely scientific…" Shiro huffed, leaned his crutches against the table and started undoing his shirt buttons. "What is this place anyway? How can  
this", he threw a glance around the laboratory, "be better equipped than a modern-day hospital?"

"Recall that question I gave you earlier, to ponder while climbing?"

"_No answers, only more questions: isn't that just typically you?_" Shiro tossed his shirt and tie over a wooden armature for rigging up vials in  
junction, and picked among the metal instruments on a tray for one that could substitute a syringe. "You can rewind time, but not for the dead",  
he said, settling for an early version of a scalpel. "Have you got any antiseptics?"

Watching Mephisto at work was entertainment in its own right: all his materials hovered obediently around him, like a swarm of glittering hummingbirds.

"_I never pictured him doing anything but paperwork…_" And with the practiced ease of a concert pianist, gloved fingers picked vials and tubes out of the air  
without ever forcing his eyes to stray from his work. It was like being smack in the middle of a fairy ta-

Shiro was called back to the present - or past? - by a bottle that nudged his arm. The label was tastefully unintelligible, but the sharp smell of  
surgical alcohol was impossible to miss.

"Thanks. …how come you can do _that _when you can't even bake cupcakes?"

"And who are you to talk? You never even tried my cupcakes." Mephisto added another drop of something purple into something pale blue.

"I'd rather try that", Shiro said flatly, and nodded at the test tube whose contents now gave off a sharp, agitated hiss accompanied by fizzy bubbles.

"Philistine." Something soft, but with high velocity, smacked Shiro in the back of his head: a small roll of linen cloth. "No sense of manners, no taste in  
clothes, no taste in cuisine." The demon clicked his tongue dismissively against his teeth and snapped his fingers; across the room, the door of a  
heavy cupboard swung open. "I have known Vikings better cultured than you, and their sense of culture was rather crude – not to mention  
unhygienic. I'm almost done; are you?"

A clean, empty beaker came gliding out of the cupboard to place itself neatly on the examination table. Imagine being able to do everything like  
that: never rummage around drawers to find what you were looking for, never take one magazine out of the bookshelf and have a dozen others fall  
out on the floor, never-

"It's simply not fair that demons have magic", he complained as he laid his scalpel by the small glass vessel and wet a strip of cloth with antiseptics.  
It had never bothered him before, that humans had to do everything by hand, but since he'd gotten to know Mephis- "_Why… would he take an interest  
in alchemy, when he has magic…?_"

"Neither is it fair that only humans get their own bodies", Mephisto pointed out. "Were you done answering the question…?" The drawled lilt expected  
Shiro to add something more, to have thought one step ahead, but gave no hint as to what he should have thought of.

"Sorry, I was too busy not falling down to think any further."

"I didn't intend for you to think further while walking up~" The guessing game was still on, huh? "One thread at a time the weft unfolds: this room  
itself is the other piece of the puzzle." Mephisto gestured around them while hovering the finished equipment and chemicals to a metal stand, of sorts,  
beside the table. "I can rewind time, but I can't bring back the dead: so…?"

Shiro cut a little deeper into the crook of his arm than he had intended, and blood welled up in generous amounts.

"You turned to alchemy." Red drops trickled into the beaker, and all the warmth in his body with it. "To find a way to do it." Oh, the pieces fit together,  
alright. And the picture they formed made his skin crawl. "You experimented with resurrecting the dead." And that table he was sitting on had been-

"Why not use the proper name for things?" Mephisto led on. "Show you deserve the grades Maki-san gave you in history~"

Shiro deliberately focused on getting the blood into the beaker and not beside it when he spoke:

"Artificial life research."

"Good~" Mephisto confirmed in a tone that did nothing to ease the chill in Shiro's bones. "What is true power?" He pointed the question at him as if  
it were a rapier. "Is it to have at beck and call the legions of Gehenna, that would swarm the land like locusts, striking down resistance with the  
force of a tidal wave and the unerring efficiency of plague? Is it to control the flow of information, to dam and release at will the precious drops of  
knowledge, and enslave the minds of the masses in shackles of ignorance and lies? Is it to be able to lay the world in ruin", he murmured in a voice  
like dark chocolate slowly melting, "with a mere snap of one's fingers?"

The sound of his middle finger sliding off his thumb sent ripples of chills over Shiro's skin.

"Demons are the agents of destruction; we warp Creation into crookedness, locate the seed of rot in every thing and make it fester. But _true _power",  
a vicious spark lit his eyes as he spread his arms wide for the announcement. "True power lies in _creation: _to seize from the realms of dream an Idea  
and weave from the thread of Thought itself the fabric to give it flesh and form! To weld the essence of the universe unto the winged breath of  
consciousness, and release into the flow of time a frail, fluttering instant with infinity locked within its confines: _that_", he said, pausing to address an  
audience unseen, "is power."

The stone walls of the laboratory soaked up his words in reverent silence, until he picked up anew, coming down from the ecstatic high:

"Though I can mould and shape nigh anything to my liking, even power like mine comes with limitations: human imagination", he leaned forward,  
intimately close, and poked a finger in Shiro's forehead, "does not. Find the right mind, give it the right means, and there is no limit that can't be  
transcended. Michał Sędziwój had the mind, but not the means; until I told him of the ley-lines that cross here in Wawel castle." He swept his arms  
out as if addressing the entire world at once. "The very lifeblood of Assiah itself, pulsing right underneath our feet. A place for miracles to be worked and  
limits obsolete to be scraped from the book of law; a place for life to be created, or restored."

"_I should've known it was you. Only a demon would do something like that._"

Shiro had read about it: what little there was. Artificial life research. Not only was it forbidden; it was a taboo so atrocious that the world had buried  
its memory in the ashes of purging fire, and left only a few lines in the books of exorcism history to testify that it had ever existed:

_It is the science of giving life to that which is dead. It is a science that claims the power of God to perform the work of the Devil. It calls shreds of  
the human soul back from death, and fuses them together with a demon so that the two, like a chimera, become one: but it is shreds only, and  
the creature they give life to is not a real human. Artificial life and its research is the gravest, most unforgivable crime one can commit against  
God and against mankind._

Meanwhile Mephisto tugged off the white glove, one finger at a time; pricked his forefinger on the sharp thumbnail… and dabbed it at the cut in  
Shiro's arm.

"Hey, what are you-?" Before Shiro got any further, a tingling itch bit his arm as the cut… closed. There was still a tender pink line, as of fresh scar  
tissue, but no bleeding.

"Checking for response", Mephisto informed, and licked blood off his finger; his own cut had healed completely in less than a second. "Of which there  
is plenty." He took Shiro's arm by the elbow and prodded the skin gently with his thumb. "Instead of your immune system reacting against the  
foreign cells, it identifies them as the body's own." He let go of his arm. "It seems we've become compatible physically as well." He chose those  
words deliberately, bloody pervert, he _definitely _chose them deliberately. "Still, a few more tests are needed to further determine the nature of  
your condition."

Shiro's eyes followed the lithe, black form as it brought the blood sample over to the vials he had prepared. A demon. Not Mephisto, but a demon:  
a creature that would stake the lives of women and children in a gamble to achieve his ends, and infuse demons into their corpses to surpass limits  
that didn't agree with him.

"_That's what human lives are to you? Puppets and playthings?_" Bloodletting or the magnitude of a world tilting unsteadily: it was an unsettled Shiro  
that kicked off his shoes and reluctantly unbuttoned his trousers. "_The more human they look, the less human they are: right as always, Midori-chan._"  
His thoughts skipped like a scratched record. No, Mephisto wasn't human. Had never been human. Had never had human morals. "_…aren't I the one  
in the wrong, expecting him to be human when he isn't?_"

Mephisto looked human, more or less. He acted human – more or less. Because he had learnt to. His mimicry was close to perfection, but an act is ever  
only an act. Mephisto had the ways of human conduct memorised like lines of a play in a foreign language; a set of sounds that he could voice without  
understanding, lyrics that made perfect sense to a listener but held no meaning in his pointy ears.

No one knows the human heart like a demon: but no demon has ever understood the human heart.

"_He knows all the buttons to push and all the strings to pull, but he doesn't understand…_" ...didn't understand the things about humans that can't be  
explained by logic; the things that are so fundamentally obvious to a human that they are beyond logic.

Shiro looked with fresh eyes at Mephisto's back while the demon mixed blood and chemicals: a visitor from another world, happily taking apart everything  
he came across to learn more about Assiah and its inhabitants.

"_He's curious._" There was a strange… innocence… to the thought. "_Curious without any true understanding of human right and wrong. Like a kid._" A kid  
centuries old that could bend time and space: innocent curiosity made infinitely lethal. "You really did it, then?" he asked, debating philosophical  
questions with himself that he really didn't feel he was up to. "Revived the dead?"

"Reanimated." Mephisto raised a cautioning finger to the difference. "God is in the detail, they say: and so is the devil – oh, the things you humans say  
at times, not understanding the weight of your words~!" he snickered, as if sharing some private joke. "One can bring life back to a body and reanimate it,  
that isn't hard: to bring the person back… ah, that Idea was smothered in its cradle."

And, while he magically attached a great number of copper wires to the cylinder of metal disks that he had built; as if it was the most natural thing  
in the world…

"'tis vain, they say, to wage pursuit of such endeavour;  
to steal from dust of dust the spark of vestal breath  
and con that lease laid down by Law that changeth never;  
for high and low alike, the price of life is death"

It was a most peculiar one-man performance… but with a lead actor like him, there wasn't room for more than one on stage.

"'tis vain, I won't contest, but nonetheless entices  
a certain type of mind from fancy to cabal;  
whatever sway Law holds, for one so fond of vices,  
doth fall to fault, as did the ilk of man in thrall"

Shiro knew nothing of theatre and performance, nor did he need to: Mephisto could hold any audience spellbound with that voice, and fill any stage  
with his presence no matter how large.

"A fickle lass, fair Chance a faithless mistress maketh,  
that, charmed by chaster hymns 'cross tipping scales she trod,  
the Ring of promise from the Fisherman then taketh  
and jilt the Devil that would do the work of God"

"Huh…" He didn't really know what to say – plain words seemed to hide in embarrassment in the company of that monologue. He settled for sound.  
Sometimes sound better expresses what you mean.

* * *

It was like any examination by any doctor: a little uncomfortable, a little tense, a little-

Oh screw that; doctors didn't have claws. Doctors didn't attach wires to your skin with resin-like stuff that smelt strange – well, maybe some did – and  
they definitely didn't _enjoy _their work the way Mephisto did. Sure, he had more knowledge than anyone of the effects demonic presence could have  
on a human body, dead or living, but he had absolutely _no _sense of-

"You're very close", Shiro informed him dryly.

Mephisto's former expertise on alchemical procedure was completely poofed away, and he took his merry time deciding whether to attach the wires  
there, or maybe there, or maybe on some other patch of skin he wanted and excuse to run his clawed fingers over. That was aggravating enough;  
but when he had worked his way up to Shiro's torso, he was so close the still-long tress of purple fringe tickled his chin.

"You don't seem overly bothered." Heavy-lidded eyes came into view as the fringe was shifted out of the way. "On the contrary", one sharp nail  
traced a suggestive beeline down his chest, "your heart rate says you'd like me to be much closer than this~"

That was _too _close. Shiro's fingers wrapped around his hair curl and tugged. Hard.

"Ow! That _hurt_!" And did bring Shiro back his personal space, too. "Some way of thanking one who tries to help you!"

"One who tries to help himself to some rather unscientific research, you mean." He quirked an unimpressed eyebrow at the demon that clutched his  
head and curl protectively. "You can make it a rule of thumb that if your curl is so close I can grab it, I will. Nice crocodile tears, by the way. And  
what do I do now?" He wiggled his feet demonstratively, but was careful not to move anything that might disturb the examination.

"You do nothing, you monkey."

"Nothing? …I might fall asleep." It had become habit, when he studied day and night, to sneak any catnap he could get: now, it seemed to have  
developed into a remarkable skill of falling asleep anywhere.

"You may, if you wish", he said with a smile, and poofed himself a large, cushioned chair to lounge in while he took down cryptic notes from a  
metronome-thing on the tray beside the table.

"Wipe that dirty look off your face, I'm not falling asleep", Shiro huffed, but it wasn't without a smile at the corners of his mouth. "There's things in  
here with more bite than permanent marker for you to play with if I do." And he was one pair of boxers away from being buck-naked: no falling asleep  
under those conditions. "You already had an idea of this", he picked up a bit more seriously. "How bad is it, you think?"

"If any of the blood samples turn black, we have reason to worry." The quill twirled pirouettes between Mephisto's fingers. "It's unlikely that you  
would have survived this long with autogenous miasma poisoning, however, so odds are that what we find will only be a minor inconvenience."

"Minor inconvenience", he repeated flatly. "That sounds like fancy-talk for rather shitty stuff."

"I believe the word you seek is 'euphemism'. There are degrees of severity, of course, but none so fatal that I can't make a potion to counter the  
deterioration."

"Deterioration", Shiro grimaced. "Did it ever strike you that picking pretty words to hide nasty stuff might be more unsettling than actually saying out  
loud that things will go to hell?"

Mephisto cocked his head to the side with the sweetest smile a couple of fangs will allow.

"Really now; why do you think demons value the art of wordsmithing so highly?" The tip of the quill left a trail of goose bumps on Shiro's arm. "The  
word is mightier than the sword because it pierces the heart through any armour." The airy touch of the feather slid languidly up to nip at his neck.  
"It's the hammer that bends the unyielding steel, and the delicate tap that traces fine embossing into its surface." Eerie. Eerie in a way that made  
something deeply human in Shiro instinctively recoil from danger. "It can be forged into the key for any lock, or chains that no key can loosen."  
Shiro turned his head away on reflex when the quill crawled up under his chin. "In the mouth of a master smith, it becomes a chisel that can shape  
souls."

There was a pause, and a dark glimmer deep in the green eyes that posed questions Shiro didn't want to ask: _Am I a master smith? Am I shaping  
you this very moment, for some distant purpose in a future only I can see?_

"_I must be insane._" He could understand people's worries. You don't make friends with a demon for the same reason you don't keep a tiger as a  
house cat. "_…then again, isn't life more valuable the closer you are to losing it?_" The world was full of lunatics parachuting off buildings and walking  
to the North pole: same need for kicks, different ways of getting them. "Does demon-wordsmithing include speaking in verse?" Thrills strummed his  
intestines, but outwardly he remained calm. Parachuter ready to jump. "Just wondering. You're the only one I've heard do that."

"Hmm, no, it isn't something demons generally do", he said, and noted down a reading on the parchment. "I think it was a habit I adopted in Assiah."

"I guess that makes you weird among both demons and humans… You're good at it, though. How come?"

"How come?" That tone. That twitch of the hair curl. There was no mistaking it: Shiro had stepped on another of those landmine-buttons that caused  
Mephisto to take offense for his ignorance. "How come _I _am good at verse and rhyme?" he snorted and marked the next reading with more force and  
flourish than the previous. "Was I not known to the Norsemen as Loke, the spirit of wile and wit; famed far and wide for speech sharper than  
tempered steel and sweeter than a lover's kiss? Was I not Hermes to the Greek; patron of poets and literature, with the winged words of wisdom  
leaping off my tongue?"

"Okay, okay, point taken: you're good with words." And had a tendency to never stop using them, if you didn't shut him up before the monologue  
gained momentum.

"Not to mention good-looking~" the demon reminded, and made another of those one-eighty turnabouts in mood.

"You're never gonna let that go, are you?"

"Neither am I going to cease being good-looking – and adorable." And happy as a kid about it. "I will have to revise my opinion of you, Shiro: you  
have both tongue and taste, on the rare occasion they are out of the closet."

If Shiro had had any hand free and mobile, he would have smacked it over his own face.

"Spirit of wit and wile…" he groaned.

* * *

"My, how interesting…"

None of the blood samples had turned black, which was a relief; but with the examination completed, "interesting" was not the word Shiro wanted  
to hear.

"Last time you said that, I was told I could host Satan." Shiro shot a meaningful look at the demon that went over the readings once more. "Don't  
you dare drop something like that on me again."

His statement earned an amused chuckle from Mephisto.

"How about 'you now possess superhuman strength'?"

"For real?"

"Fufufufu look at that face!" The demon laughed with his whole, spindly body. "Have you decided on name and costume yet, Astro Boy?"

Shiro wiped expectation off his features and replaced it with a shamefaced glare. All men are boys on the inside, and all boys dream of having  
superpowers: likewise, all men would rather headbutt a bullet than admit that.

"You can put those ambitions to rest right away, Shiro: you won't be using that strength."

"You mean I actually _have _superhuman strength?" He had assumed it was just a joke, when Mephisto laughed like that.

"Yes – as improbable and impractical as that is; yes, you do." Both quill and parchment disappeared with a poof. "Quite unique, your degree of  
assimilation. I dismissed it as a passing afterglow when you sparred with me, but it seems permanent – a rather delightful way of being wrong,  
I do say. In the simplest way of putting it", he said when he finally noticed the look of get-on-with-it painted on Shiro's features, "your body is  
halfway between human and demon."

The words replayed in Shiro's mind. Very slowly. No, they still said the same thing: halfway between human and demon.

"What does that mean, exactly?" he asked, feeling as though his body had gone someplace else for a while to digest the information.

"Who knows?" he said in that disgustingly flippant manner that made Shiro itch to yank his curl again. "This is the first case in its kind, as far as  
my knowledge stretches: very much can be assumed and very little said for sure." Mephisto slipped his gloves back on. "A body changes in many  
ways when a demon takes up residence in it, and changes back when it leaves. You weren't possessed in the traditional sense, but it would seem  
your body changed as if you were; without fully changing back."

"Details." Shiro began detaching the wires from himself, and scrubbed off the stinking paste with linen cloth as he did. "The devil's in the details: in  
what way has it changed?"

"That would require insight in biochemical processes that I don't think you-"

"What you think doesn't really do me any good unless it comes out of your mouth: _details_", Shiro demanded, and realised his mistake the moment he  
had. He knew that look: it meant _manners_, and it wasn't going away unless complied with. "Tell me; please."

"That's more like it~ The human body is a peculiar contraption, able to exercise much greater physical strength than it is built for – why, had you  
used any more force on that tengu, the strain would have torn the muscles from your bones."

He said it as if he were talking about some anime he had watched, but Shiro could feel the imagined pain – tearing muscle from bone? that must hurt  
like _hell_ – rip through his tissues.

"To prevent such messy things, your nervous system is equipped with a set of safety circuits - muscle spindles, so called - which serve to inhibit the  
strength of your muscles. When a body is possessed by a demon, these safety circuits are switched off to enable it to channel our strength without,  
so to speak, blowing a fuse. This places the body under great strain, but since we constantly regenerate damage, one thing balances out the other."  
Mephisto's head tilted to the side as he ran an analytical glance over Shiro from toe to head. "Some percentage of your safeties remain inactive since  
Deep Keep, allowing you to perform remarkable feats of strength – at the humble price of having your muscles and tendons snap. Fortunately, no  
such thing has happened. The damage done to your fingers is not all too grave, and will heal with no permanent ill-effects." His head tilted back  
straight on his neck when he met Shiro's eyes. "Detailed enough for you?"

"Yeah. Thanks." He curled and flexed his fingers, so very grateful that they would go back to normal. "So what now? I have to watch it so I don't  
overexert myself?"

"You mean we should leave you to your own devices…?"

"Something tells me you don't think that's a very good idea", Shiro deduced from the look of Utter Scepticism on the demon's face. "And I might be  
inclined to agree with you, depending on what your suggestion is."

"Spoken like a businessman~ A body can adapt, tendons can be strengthened: I will have Gokuro-san design a special training program for you, and  
if you follow it properly", Shiro didn't miss the special emphasis on that word, "you might be able to make use of that muscle force – to a certain  
extent. In either case, you need to acquaint yourself anew with your body or you will most definitely damage it."

"Sounds good enough to me." Maybe too soon to give up that superhero costume…? Completely insane, this was – but he wouldn't deny it was at  
the same time pretty cool. "Funny thing, that imprint… Wonder what other effects we'll see from it?" Shiro chuckled as he pulled the shirt on and  
retrieved his glasses. "Maybe I'll start speaking in verse?"

"Maybe you will learn to do a tie?" Mephisto suggested, without much hope to it, when he once again had to tie the garment for him.

"Maybe I'll be able to grow a beard?" Shiro pondered, having Mephisto's trademark goatee at eye level.

"A rather messy and unkempt one, judging by your hair."

"Pff, you probably comb that goatee smooth."

"Don't be ridiculous; it's natural."

"Oh I've seen your natural hair in the morning", Shiro grinned with one eyebrow cocked at the affronted look on Mephisto's features. "Very elegant."

"The same could be said of your way of getting out of bed in the morning", the demon countered effortlessly.

"That isn't half as embarrassing as sleeping with a unicorn plushie."

To his surprise, Mephisto chuckled – no, _giggled_. At first Shiro thought he had made a bow out of his tie, or done some other silly thing, but-

"No risk of you speaking in verse, with the little thought you put behind your words", he chuckled through a grin. "Anyone who heard you would  
get the impression you have observed my habits in bed quite often."

Shiro ran the conversation over in his head… and cracked up.

"Shit, that really does- pfwahahaha oh god it sounds so wrong!" He covered his eyes with his hand in embarrassment, but couldn't stop laughing.  
"Oh, now I see! It must be the imprint that turns everything I say into pervy hints!"

"The imprint augments what is already there~" Mephisto teased, and smoothed down the shirt collar over the tie. "Whether you acknowledge it or not."

"Yeah, yeah, keep on dreaming: I'm not into guys." Shiro pulled his trousers on, and carefully inched them up past the stitches without the fabric  
touching them.

"Not even exceptionally good-looking ones~?" he asked with a look that indicated he would print _exceptionally good-looking _on his business card  
without an ounce of shame.

"Especially not those: their heads tend to be too big for my palate. …no! Oh, don't you-! You _know _what I meant, you pervert! I'm not like that,  
it's the imprint! It's the _imprint_, I tell you…!"

But Mephisto had already collapsed over the examination table, with lung-bursting laughter peeling tears down his cheeks and drowning out Shiro's  
attempts to clarify what kind of head he really meant.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Why Poland?**  
The laboratory Mephisto used was situated in 16th century Poland, yes? (…I actually tried to find a building that matched the looks of the one in  
the anime, but gave up.) And Neuhaus, who was apprenticed at such a laboratory, was from Poland. What's up with Poland?

New Ageists and Hindu gurus say that seven ley-lines, the energy flows (nadis) of the earth, intersect in Krakow to form one of the planet's strongest  
nodes (chakras) of power. "Energy" is pretty vague, but consider it Mother Earth's lifeblood. More precisely, these flows are said to intersect at Wawel  
hill, where lies Wawel castle: a powerhouse, quite literally, for one wanting to conduct experiments relating to life and resurrection.

Now, I tried to get this verified by the staff at Wawel Royal Castle National Art Collection, but they either thought I was joking or tossed the mail in  
the junk. |'-3 So be aware there's some sources contradicting this, but also some that say it's true: and if it turns out not to be true, I'll just claim  
the Vatican did a cover-up. ;) Anyways: one of the towers of Wawel castle, the one called the Hen's Foot, used to house the laboratory of a Michał  
Sędziwój (1566-1636), a pioneering alchemist and the first man to distil what was then called "the food of life": oxygen.

I don't think Mephisto could visit the present-day research facility from the anime: not without anyone noticing. But the cradle of the art? Yes, maybe.  
At safe distance from the Vatican's watchful eyes, too. Michał Sędziwój was something of a genius in alchemy at the time: sounds like someone whose  
aid Mephisto might have enlisted for his research?

Another funky detail in this is that Sędziwój was educated in, among other places, Wittenberg: same place as a certain Johann Faust (in legend). And  
speaking of the Faust found in legend: the constituents of his character are derived from many real life sources, one of which allegedly was Georg  
Sabellicus, a necromancer living in the 16th century (same as Sędziwój). And would you believe it? Sabellicus travelled to Poland to study – yep – magic  
(as chemistry and the natural sciences were called at the time). It would seem Poland was the place to go for advanced research at that time: so, in all,  
Kazue Kato picked her spot well.

**Verses and wordplay**  
…because they might not be as obvious if you haven't spent three weeks poring over them, as I have. |-'3 I'm still using Göthe's way of writing,  
but I "levelled up" to hexameter since the pentameter made it darn cramped to fit in both words and flow.  
_  
'tis, vain, they say, to wage pursuit of such endeavour;  
to steal from dust of dust the spark of vestal breath  
and con that lease laid down by Law that changeth never;  
for high and low alike, the price of life is death_

Vain, and unspeakable, and blasphemous - small wonder Mephisto couldn't keep his hands off the research into artificial life. I play with the burial  
rites (...those words in junction sound very wrong) wording of "from dust to dust", in the sense that somewhere in between our states of "living  
dust" and "plain dust" it would be possible to steal that divine spark that makes the difference between them, and bring life to that which is dead;  
to cheat the eternal rule that life is merely something we borrow, at a price that cannot be negotiated.

_'tis vain, I won't contest, but nonetheless entices  
a certain type of mind from fancy to cabal;  
whatever sway Law holds, for one so fond of vices,  
doth fall to fault as did the ilk of man in thrall  
_  
Sounds a lot like nonsense, yes. _Fall _and _fault _are the two possible English translations of the Latin _culpa_: and _Culpa _is the word used to denote  
the Fall of Man, that made mankind slave to mortality, disease, sin, etc. Whatever authority the Law of God holds over one like Mephisto will fall, as  
irrevocably as Mankind did, to the temptation that beckons his fancies. I fell in love with the word _cabal_, had to use it somehow. x'3 Look it up if  
you haven't seen it before: it's just the thing for someone like Mephisto.  
_  
A fickle lass, fair Chance a faithless mistress maketh,  
that, charmed by chaster hymns 'cross tipping scales she trod,  
the Ring of promise from the Fisherman then taketh  
and jilt the Devil that would do the work of God_

Never trust the capriciousness of chance: you never know when the scales of fortune will tip and you find yourself out of luck and in a pinch. No  
longer comfortable with Mephisto's wicked ambitions, Lady Chance abandons her favourite to settle with a more respectable man. The Ring of the  
Fisherman is one of the official regalia worn by the Pope: it was the Vatican that forbade research into artificial life, remember? And, well, a ring  
of promise for the faithless mistress; I don't need to elaborate on that. The ring itself is a golden signet ring with pattern based on the biblical  
St Peter, who was a fisherman by profession: the earliest historical mention of it is from 1265.  
_  
The word is mightier than the sword_  
You're used to hearing "The pen is mightier than the sword", no? This one is its predecessor by some 2000 years. _Story of Ahiqar_ was found during  
archaeological diggings in present-day Egypt. It's a collection of tales, written in Aramaic, that is similar to the fables of Aesop and many stories  
featured in the Bible and the Quran.

**Loke  
**…yes, I hope you can live with the Swedish spelling. ^_^' I use proper ö for Göthe, and I prefer using "proper" spelling of my favourite childhood  
scoundrel-hero's name. Mentioned as one of Mephisto's earlier aliases in AnE ch 39, and the similarities are all there: trickster, schemer, shape  
shifter, sometimes benevolent and sometimes malevolent, not a god and yet accepted among the gods through oath, deity of wit and wordsmithing  
(most notably, smithing lies), and… quite the slut. ^_^' It's also said that Loke owns shoes that let him walk on water and air, to escape the  
many people that would want to wring his neck: a way of saying he can transport himself anywhere very swiftly? Poof…?

**Hermes  
**Not as canon as Loke, but I believe Mephisto has been around long enough to cause trouble in all sorts of places. (I trust that if you think I'm way  
off track in my mad speculations, you'll let me know.) Some sources have it that the name Hermes itself is derived from a Greek word for "the power  
of speech", plus you find a bunch of modern-day words like _hermeneutics _(the study of interpretation of the written word) that more or less relate  
to the science of words. A trickster god, an intermediary between gods (well, "gods") and men, and able to move freely between the realm of the  
divine and the realm of mortals. He's the patron not only of poets and literature but also of orators and wit – and thieves. And he owns a pair of  
winged sandals; again, for swift transport?

**Safety circuits and demonic strength**  
I invented a sort of anachronistic EMG examination (you might recognise a vague description of Alessandro Volta's cylinder battery), combined  
with testing blood samples to look for abnormalities. I imagine chemical balance and nerve function are the kind of things you'd have to check, if  
you dabbled in reanimating corpses using demonic possession.

There's a whole set of nerve bundles, muscle spindles and things that moderate the tension and relaxation of muscles: there's no definite consensus  
on exactly which ones do what, and how they work. But if you "switched the safeties off" you would be able to do badass cool stuff. And then your  
body would break. |-3 There is training that aims to accomplish that (by overriding the reflex response from the spine), I learnt, but it's only done  
by body-builders and weight lifters and people that have no healthy relationship to their bodies. But imagine if you could balance that tendon-tearing  
strength potential with a demon's regenerative abilities…? Well, theoretically, it would work. And I'm a stickler for pseudoscience. =P

**Why bother?**  
I'm not trying to give Shiro superpowers… =_=' There is a gap in canon that I need to fill, sooner or later. Humans in AnE are delightfully human,  
without insane strength or speed; unless we look at Shura and Angel. Yes, their high rank allows for superhuman badassery, but the most notable  
difference between them and other exorcists is that they wield demon swords. Angel asks Caliburn to lend him its strength, at a price: so I'm  
assuming they both enjoy that augmentation of strength and speed as a part of their contracts with their respective weapons.

That's the standard for how powerful a Paladin ought to be, then. In that first volume of the manga, Shiro is quite capable of blocking a demon's  
attack singlehandedly, and whacking said demon into the dirt: without asking to borrow strength from any sword. Or gun. (Can you even picture  
a "demon gun", the modern-day equivalent of a "demon sword"…?)

The manga really doesn't give you much on Shiro. ^_^' Even if I squint 'til my eyes bleed, I can't see any indication that he used a demon sword,  
or any enchanted/possessed weapon that would enhance his physical capacity. Maybe future chapters will show that. As for now, I will pretend that  
his additional speed/strength came from a quite different "contract". At a price.

**The billion-dollar question the anime never answered**  
…you thought I would write it here? No no no. "Postponing the excitement for later is simply for your own good." 0w~ (It's in the text anyway.)

I don't run with the anime, usually, but there is a most interesting question in it that was never answered: and when the subject was discreetly  
brought up anew in the manga, I decided I'd have a go at it. So remember this chapter, and you will get both question and a guess at the answer…  
in chapter 91.


	22. 74: The bell rings once-

**A/N: …ne, nu skriver vi på svenska för omväxlings skull. Någons huvud slår väl alltid knut på sig; inte minst om vår tids härligaste språkförbistringskatalysator , google translate, tillfrågas i saken. (...inte skulle jag väl medvetet få för mig att konstruera helvetessatser?) Om inte annat gör det nog en själv gott att lösa upp dendrit-knutarna litegrann; engelskan snör fast tungroten i svalget på en i längden, om man inte passar sig.**

The above sentences make perfect sense to a Swede, but are designed not to make sense for shit if you run them in an automatic translator: have fun. =P *exercise in pointlessness, both writing it and deciphering it*

**Jag varken äger eller tjänar ett rött öre på det här: all ära och inkomst åt Kazue Kato och eventuella andra rättighetsinnehavare vars existens gått mig förbi. **

* * *

It was a beautiful summer's day, and Shiro plain refused to study cooped up in the sweltering dorm room. The breeze on the roof felt nice in his hair, except when it blew into his eyes. Mephisto did have a point; he should cut it, but exams had highest priority at the moment.

Would you listen to that? _Exams had highest priority._ He certainly had changed.

"_Superhuman strength._" …yes, he felt a bit smug about it. That was by far the best thing the imprint had brought him. "_I can't wait to start that training._"

There had come a telegram a couple of days earlier that filled him with both excitement and nervousness. It's a very common mix, but nonetheless annoyingly distractive; even more so when the sender of the telegram should've showed up yesterday. Every now and then Shiro would push his fringe – what fringe? all his hair was the same length – out of the way, squint, and scan the sundrenched streets below. A shahrokh familiar had swooped by not long ago, and at the sight of him it had made an excited loop and flown back the same direction.

…suddenly, he wished he had taken the time to cut his hair. A quick one-over with the knife, maybe? On second thought, that probably wouldn't be any improvement.

Shiro was poring over his books and developing stupid complexes over his appearance when the unmistakable smell of amanatto, in the shape of a brown paper bag, landed right in the middle of _Differences in efficiency between Biblical verses and Buddhist chants used against possessed objects as opposed to possessed creatures_.

"Awful way ta spend a fine day like this", Kasumi's voice sounded from above his head. "Ye takin' the exam fe' Aria, like Shizzy?" Her long sideway fringe tickled his ear as she leaned down to peer over his shoulder.

"That one and all the rest – and you just graduated from the ninja academy?" Shiro raised an eyebrow at the face inches from his. "That roof door screeches like a banshee when it's opened."

"Good thing I didn't take the stairs, then."

Shiro had to run that one over in his head once more. Sure, _he _used to climb facades, but Kasumi was a-

A badass she-devil with a face that should be that close to his permanently. She smelt like summer flowers and road dust and adventure, and he wouldn't mind eating her instead of the sweets.

"You know, I hear amanatto taste better if you eat it indoors."

"Then I say yer hearin' ain't very good."

"No, it's true", he ensured with a straight face. "You lay them out one by one, sprinkle them with sesame seeds, and eat them off each other's naked bodies. They taste wonderful."

Kasumi's hearty laughter made her chest vibrate against his back and pour other creative ways of dining into his head.

"Nice try, pretty-boy." She straightened up and ruffled his hair; dammit, he should've had it cut. "Savin' up fer a perm? That an' those glasses an' ye'll look just like an old lady."

"Oh, is that the kind you prefer? Sorry, I didn't know."

"Ohoho, we~ll", she smirked down at him from above. "Ye're the expert at pickin' out the girls ye can't get, aren't ya? Fe' the record", she leaned down over him to pick the bag up, brushing – _laying _– her voluptuous breasts against his shoulder, "I like my men with big hearts an' big…" impishness played a merry summer-serenade on her features, "…mouths." To his surprise, she placed a teasing peck on his cheek. "C'mon, we got some catchin' up ta do." Kasumi sashayed off towards the creaky rooftop door, swinging the bag back and forth in her hand. "An' these", she held them up with a wink over her shoulder, "taste best while walkin' in a nice, shadowed park."

"_Looking good both up front and behind_", he grinned to himself as he gathered up his books while throwing sideways glances at the rear disappearing through the door. "_I really hope I can get on Shizu-san's good side again. Hell knows I miss talking to him… and he's got a killer sister I wouldn't mind talking more with, either._"

* * *

There _are _perfect days: days that warm blood and body like a constant sugar rush, and in every way ensure you that life is a beautiful thing. Shiro and Kasumi chose the walk around the lake, the one where dusk would see the night market setting up shop on the city-side shore. There was nothing there now, only the bright view of the square across the lake and rippling sunlight playing in the shading canopy of birdsong above them.

Demons dwell in darkness and shadow, and days like this their presences were so vague Shiro could barely sense them at all. They were still there, of course. They were always there. But the sun was bright, life was beautiful, and all the flowers of summer were walking next to him with a playful smile and a bag of sweets: on a day like this, Shiro would allow himself the risky luxury of an unshielded heart.

Kasumi was something out of the ordinary. A pocket in time, but a living one. A henro travelling by foot in a time of cars, owning only the treasure of memories in a time of money and work. A thousand tales from sky to earth lived in her smiling eyes, and her skin shone proudly with the deep tint of hard-earned wisdom: someone out of the ordinary. Someone who inevitably drew Shiro's attention.

"Nah, enough o' my roadside ramblings", she concluded after a most fascinating story of a man who had not only accidentally severed his toe while thinning his cabbages, but found that it enhanced the flavour of rice wine quite nicely if you let it soak in the bottle. "What've you been up to? When ye're not on hero duty an' savin' women an' children in need?"

"Saving demons in need", he said with a smile, took a bean from the bag and let his hand incidentally brush against Kasumi's. "Oh, you don't believe me? Ask Mephisto's butler. He came to me the other day and begged me on his knees to save the staff from their master: literally _on his knees._"

Her face was still the image of befuddlement.

"…that's… completely messed up. They come te _you _when they're having trouble with their boss?"

"Yep: I'm the only one that can do battle with the great Sir Mephisto Pheles. Between you and me, he's one pesky princess to be employed by", Shiro confided with a grin. "I actually pity his servants a bit, so I helped them out."

"How, 'sactly? Come on, I know the smell of a good story!"

"Right, right." He took the unlit cigarette from his lips and tucked it behind his ear to speak freely: "So Mephisto dresses like a circus drag queen, and…"

And when he was done relating how the bet came about and how it was won, they had to make a short stop to let Kasumi laugh. That also meant she leaned on him for support, which was very nice indeed.

"Ahahah…haaah… oh my, that's… fufufufu oh ye're a crack-up, both o' ye hahahaha… Oddest couple I ever saw, but it's plain as day ye're just right fer each other", she sniggered, and wiped laughing tears with the back of her hand in a very unladylike manner.

"Oi, you're speaking as if we were dating." Shiro pulled a face that said all about what he thought of that. Thank goodness Mephisto wasn't there to pick up on it. Bloody hell, he'd never let it go…

"Oh?" There it was: the look of an impish little pixie about to pull off a prank. "Ye're down ta callin' each other by first name, if ye haven't noticed. Without honorifics. Will ye be doin' it the Catholic way, or d'ya go with traditional Shinto or Buddhist ceremonies?"

"The one with the fanciest wedding dress, if you let him pick." Shiro made an unarticulated noise that perfectly expressed his feelings about the vision. "The worst thing is he'd probably put one on without even blinking. Half of the clothes in his wardrobe seem to be women's yukatas." Kasumi went down in another laughing fit, so he took his time to simply _enjoy_: summer warmth and sunny laughter, a cute girl at his side, no demons breathing down his neck… "Well, if you're done, I can inform you we don't really use names with each other at all." He brought a hand up to count. "He calls me 'monkey', 'barbarian', 'philistine', 'plebeian' – I don't even know what that one means, but it's probably an insult educated people use to make the less educated feel even more stupid." He picked another treat out of the bag and tossed it into his mouth whole. "We dropped the honorifics part 'cause we're simply not very formal with each other."

Kasumi's expression was one in between wonder and disbelief.

"Ye must be givin' 'im plenty o' reason ta say that: 'e's been a perfect gentleman the times I've met 'im."

"I have a hard time believing that. Why would he be a gentleman to you…?" He took the opportunity to cast an obvious glance at the treats tucked inside her robe; rather than the furtive ones he cast when he pretended to look at some particularly interesting tree.

"Well, at least 'e's looking at my eyes an' not my tits." She gave him a glance in return that could compete with Mephisto's. "Or trees across the walkway."

…he might have to polish his furtiveness.

"You're one scary girl", he grinned sheepishly and scratched his nose. "Too late to say I was just checking that there weren't any pines nearby?"

"Far too late~ Poor excuse, anyway – ye missed that one ova' there."

"Shit. I'd better run, then."

"You'd better." There was a gleam in her eyes that was not to be trusted. "Before I'm done decidin' which end o' ya I'm gonna shove it in."

"I've still got stitches in my leg, you know."

"An' yer legs are longer than mine, so it evens out", she said with a grin that was just the right amount of wicked. "Last one ta the bridge treats the other t'a slice o' watermelon."

* * *

Smokers aren't famed for any outstanding stamina: in that department, the imprint had unfortunately not made any improvements. Shiro was an okay sprinter, but the bridge was a bit farther than sprinting distance; and he didn't dare go all out, with Mephisto's ominous words of snapping muscle tendons in mind. Plus he had that half-healed wound in his leg. And the wind blew the wrong direction.

…did excuses make the defeat in physical performance any less devastating, when his opponent was a girl that barely reached him to the shoulder? No, not really.

"Ah shit, I'm gonna die…" he wheezed, supported himself with his hands on his knees, and threw glares at the evil pygmy – for real? she wasn't even panting? – that twirled her walking staff idly in one hand.

"Not before ye've bought me my watermelon." She let the staff twirl one full turn around her hand, caught it, and set the end in the ground with a decisive feeling of 'let's go, then'. "With that stamina ye don't need a perm ta be an old lady. Want me te carry ya…?"

…look at that smug face: she probably _could _carry him, dammit all…

"If I buy a whole watermelon and stuff it into your mouth sideways, will it shut you up?"

"I know a mouth it would fit for sure: how about ye buy one an' we try…?"

* * *

Oh, there weren't words for it. There were simply not words for how good the air tasted, how bright the sun was; how much he enjoyed opening his heart and senses to the world, and having someone he didn't have to wear any mask around.

Someone who didn't wear any mask around him. Someone whose laughter didn't ring false with doubts and worries in his ears.

God, it was a whole different life…

They occupied the railing of the wooden bridge across the lake; each with a slice of watermelon in one hand, the other shading their eyes, and both trying to spit the seeds as far as they could.

To Shiro's relief, he could beat her at least at that.

"I'll be!" she whistled when he hit another pink lotus flower. "Shizzy said ye could shoot a yabudemari berry from a flying bird's beak, but I thought that was just fe' guns. Ye're an outstanding marksman."

Hearing it from Ando-sensei was nice: hearing it from Kasumi was bloody awesome.

"Thanks." He picked another slice from the tray between them, and relished in it far beyond the actual taste. "_My head will be the size of Mephisto's._"

"Ye know, I envy him at times", she mused softly. "We've never gone ta school, not me or any o' my sisters: mum an' dad taught us everything on the road. It was always just us, an' the people we met an' left as we walked. In my mind we were always gonna be fam'ly, stay tagether."

She spat another watermelon seed, and attracted the attentions of a rather disappointed duck.

"Years went by, roads ended an' branched off, an' in the end it was just Shizzy an' me. An' then, on 'is fifteenth birthday, 'e told me 'e wanted ta go ta the Academy in True Cross Town." She chuckled in her throat, eyes lost in the dancing sparks on the water. "I knew he'd been up ta somethin', what with savin' all that money – even skippin' a few meals some days, ta save more – but I'd had no idea what 'e was gonna do. An' it really hurt."

She licked the edge of the red flesh before she bit into the last slice of melon.

"The others couldn't help it – we all die one day – but Shizzy left by choice. An' he's my brother. I dunno if ye can relate, but… 'e's like the other half of me", she smiled. Shiro could believe that smile. He'd seen Shizuku and Kasumi together, and they really were- "We're two branches o' the same tree, growin' tagether since birth. An' when 'e said 'e wanted ta part ways, I…" Part of Shiro wanted to punch Shizuku for putting a look like that on Kasumi's face: but then, she chuckled. "Ye know how 'e can shout when 'e's mad. I'm ten years older, an' I shout ten times louder: I bet they could hear our argument ova' te the next village." The green crescent joined the others on the empty tray. Somewhere in Shiro's gut, a knot tightened. "But in the end, we all choose our own paths. I didn't like letting 'im go, but I respected 'is choice – an' now that I see where his path took 'im, I can tell it was the right choice." That look on her face – no, no; not so soon. Just a little longer, just a little more before they- "I reminded him o' that when I got here yesta'day. It's a bitter pill fe' him ta swallow, but 'e did reconsider." Kasumi swung her legs effortlessly over the railing and landed on the bridge. "So the grounds are stomped an' the cleansing salt's thrown inta the circle: only thing left is for the two o' ye ta meet up an' sort this out", she declared with a bright smile and a wink.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Ring the bell: **hit the spot, be just what's needed in the situation

**Amanatto: **azuki beans or other beans that have simmered in syrup and then been coated in sugar, basically.

**Yabudemari: **in the West more commonly called "snowball bush/tree". They grow red berries in fall.

**Sourtoe Cocktail:** that bit about chopping a toe off and putting it in your drink? Reality beats fiction. Google it and find out. 8/


	23. 75: -twice-

**A/N: Silly question, but does anyone know how I make this editing program do strikethroughs? ^_^'**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

There is only one negative thing with perfect days: sooner or later, they end. Usually sooner. Far sooner than you want them to.

It wasn't something he liked to admit, but Shiro had hoped that… had hoped. Had clung to it for the longest time, even if he knew it wouldn't last.

He knew why Kasumi was there; he just didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to leave this relaxed day – this _real _day, without unspoken questions and fake smiles – to go back to the tension and the masks. They might resolve the worst of it with Shizuku, but there would always be masks. There would always be things he could never let any human know.

* * *

The short pilgrim led the way back to the forested side of the lake, and Shiro was suddenly reminded that this was the bridge: the bridge where he and Shizuku had had their final argument.

"_Shape up, you pussy. You've settled things before._" Usually with fists, but… There was a deeply unsettling feeling in his gut that he wasn't used to and couldn't identify. "I was a bit worried when you didn't show up yesterday", he picked up, and immediately regretted the sound of it.

"Ye gotta have _some_ better pick-up line ta try, bigmouth" she jabbed with a smile. "Thought I was gonna be here sooner, but I got held up on the way. Anyways, I was here by nightfall. Shizzy filled me out on the story 'round this argument ye're havin'." _Reject_. He didn't want that, he realised. He didn't want Shizuku to tell Kasumi what the Shiro with the mask was like. He wanted to cut this day off from all the rest of his days and never let the two come in contact, for risk of contamination. "Now, I'm not passin' any judgement on anyone; I just wanna hear your thoughts on it. Midori-san said some pretty ominous stuff 'bout ye' friend there at the shooting range."

Shiro bit the tip of his tongue in thought. Two Shiros were about to meet, Shizuku's and Kasumi's, and they had to speak with the same voice.

"I think Midori-chan is right; about him being powerful. Demons can tell such things about each other. But she doesn't know him as a person."

"An' how would ye say 'e is, as a person?"

Describe Mephisto? Why not have a go at describing das Labyrinth des Limbus? There was nothing you could say of him that wasn't contradicted by something else he did. He was such a massive complex of dead ends and false walls and roads that twisted back in on themselves that you'd lose yourself in the vastness of it without ever coming closer to explaining what he was li-

"…like outpacing thought", he mumbled, rewinding what he had just thought to try again; try to see more of what he'd glimpsed in the corner of his mind's eye for a split second. "_Beyond what the mind can grasp; so infinitely much more than the mind itself that-_" Damn, it slipped so quickly…!

"Hoo~ That's an unusual thing ta hear from that mouth", Kasumi whistled in honest amazement. "Outpacin' thought. I see what ye mean."

"You do…?" His turn to be surprised. Maybe she could explain…?

"Yeah." Her admiring face broke with an absentminded chuckle. "In a sense. Couldn't explain what it is, though. That's part of the idea, no?" She glanced up at him with the same honesty now forming a warm smile on her lips. "There's things beyond the grasp of words an' thoughts. Things too big fer us ta comprehend." They left the walkway for a narrow forest trail overgrown with neglect. "Shizzy worried a lot about Midori-san's words, but I think ye're closer ta how things are than he is."

Oh yes, Shizuku worried. And Shiro worried more and more if he would be able to pull off this meeting or not. Shizuku would have him answer all those inconvenient questions in front of Kasumi, and-

"'e's still a kid, my brother", her voice phased back into his perception. The path was too narrow for them to walk side by side, and she spoke over her shoulder in front of him. "Mature fe' his age, but hasty an' stubborn as teenage guys are. An' feels a very strong responsibility fe' people – 'e got that from dad, I'm sure."

The thick greenery of summer closed in on them and tinted the sunlight with chlorophyll. Shadows had life in there: sluggish and whining and weak at that hour, but shielded from direct sunlight. And attentive of the humans that disturbed them.

Thinking more of the short, robed shape ahead than of himself, Shiro let his heart grow cold and indifferent in the lush warmth. Caution before comfort.

"_Just a tiny crack…_" he told himself. He didn't want it to end, didn't want the dull cold after that sweet sunlight, didn't want to give up that freedom just when he realised how much he had missed it.

Didn't want to meet Shizuku and be forced back into pretending and worming around questions. Not with Kasumi there to witness it.

"The way I see it, Midori-san's outpacing thought a little, too", Kasumi continued solemnly, oblivious to both demons and the change in Shiro. "She grew up without a language, an' she sees things quite different from us who did: she sees the core. The things that are beyond words."

The trail was nonexistent now, and underneath the rustling of twigs they pushed out of their way Shiro could hear a susurrus, claustrophobic sensation trill against his eardrums.

"I don't doubt that Pheles genuinely tries ta fit inta the human world, an' he's doin' a great job with it", she said somewhere beyond the murmuring, "but it never changes what 'e is at the core."

Was this what his dad had felt? Was this why he had distanced himself from his family more and more? Because there were things unsaid there that could never be said, wrongs made that could never be set right; and wasn't it so much easier to abandon ship and start anew, start again in a place where he didn't need to wear any mask?

"_…I'm becoming him more and more…_"

And the claustrophobic sensation grew stronger.

"That's what Midori-san sees: the demon Pheles. So ye're probably right when ye say there's the _person _Pheles, too, but that's not the part o' him that has me worried."

Oh, she shouldn't worry about Pheles: behind her, Shiro drowned. Clawed for the light beyond darkness that had blotted out his vision before he had time to react.

"_No, hell no, not now…!_" He groped for control, tried to put a lid on the panic, but all he could think of was Kasumi a few steps ahead of him; Kasumi who shouldn't worry about him, Kasumi that he so desperately wanted to be a normal teenager with, Kasumi that must _not _be hurt…!

"Ye alright back there?" She threw a glance over her shoulder, looking worried-

_looking as if she already knew_

"Yeah, I'm good. Just stumbled over a branch." Steady voice, steady face; please, _please_… "Still got stitches in the leg, you know."

"_**That's right: be a good boy and put on the mask. Be a good boy and pretend there's nothing wrong with you~**_"

Shiro stumbled on behind Kasumi like a drunk, ducking the bombardment of old memories that threatened to weigh him down into unconscious- ness –_ Why didn't you come home last night? Mom was all worried, she stayed up, and she was crying_ – with a body that was only half his. With a face that resembled his dad's so much…

"_**Like father, like son. Killed himself, did he~? After he killed your mother. Why don't we put the saying to the test fufufufufu~?**_" No… _no… _"_**Since you worry so, little Shiro: let's see how much like your dad you are~**_" the shrill voice cackled joyfully. "_**If you kill her, will you kill yourself next…?**_"

No…!

His legs moved faster, his hand reached into his pocket for the knife-

"_Why the fuck do I carry a knife in situations like this!?_"

He had to yell, at least warn her, had to do _something_…!

Kasumi pushed through a thick hazel shrub and disappeared out of sight; Shiro's body gritted its teeth as it tried to open the tight fist he had willed the fingers to make so they couldn't take the knife-

Sunlight stung his eyes and made the demon's grip loosen: Shiro leapt at his chance with full force, and when he was out of the hazel… he was alone in his body.

They stood on a proper path, wide enough for three people at least. Both sides were flanked by lush forest, and the path itself was covered with warm, dust-breathing gravel that heated through the soles of his shoes. Kasumi's skin was caramel in the light, with that tuft of her tied-up hair glowing like a bush of dandelion seeds in the sun.

It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Ye really should stop smokin'", Kasumi observed, with both her eyebrows raised at the flustered, panting teenage guy in front of her. "Ye' stamina fuckin' sucks."

She just stood there… and had no idea…

Shiro burst into the involuntary laughter of knotted nerves going slack.

"Yeah. Yeah, I should." He ran a shaky hand through his hair, and felt the coarse hairs sting where fingernails had dug holes in his palm. "Next time you might wanna keep me on a proper road."

"Listen ta pretty-boy speakin'", she chuckled. "I'm assuming ye were puffin' too loud ta hear what I said?" Kasumi looked at him in a way that reminded Shiro she was an Older Sister, and it was second nature to her to make sure Little Brothers were out of harm's way; not out of trouble's way, but a safe distance from harm's. "I was sayin' that it's not the person part o' Pheles that has me worried. The _person_ Pheles might want ta be ye' friend, but the _demon_ Pheles is a different story altagether: when it comes down to it, 'e's a fox and ye're a rabbit, an' every instinct in 'is body will be screamin' at 'im ta bite yer head off. One instant o' lost control on his part an' it could end badly for ya; one move wrong an' ye could snap 'is control like a dry twig." She tipped her head to the side and looked at- no, looked _through _him. "Is it worth it?"

"Is it worth…?" his voice faltered.

"A friendship where ye have ta constantly be on guard. Watch ye' back, watch ye' tongue, watch ye' mind..." Her head tipped back up straight with a smile that was… the painful kind of soft. "...watch ye' heart. Is it worth it?"

Dagger. The soft, painful kind of dagger. Blind stab, right into the chest.

Is it worth it? Is friendship worth it if you have to be constantly on guard, constantly protect; constantly mistrust yourself and hide it…?

She just stood there… and had no idea…

_Is it worth it if the fox one day bites the rabbit?_

"It's worth it." Yet he sounded a lot more sure than he felt.

And when he followed Kasumi up the sundrenched hill, he could feel dark whispers swirl in his shadow.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Ring alarm bells: **a sign that something's not right, and you have reason to worry.


	24. 76: -thrice

**A/N:** **I can't believe the reviews I'm getting. 0_0 Honestly, you're all… I don't know how to put words on it. My sincerest, deepest thanks to you, for being the lovely readers you are. I'll try my very best to write a story worthy of such praise.**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Shiro could orientate himself, after a while. They had taken a shortcut to the path that led up to the little shrine on a forested pinnacle in the wild parts of True Cross Town. He could hear Shizuku's distinct whistling long before he could see the shrine: a wooden building of humble proportions and traditional design. Shizuku sat on the ground, leaned against one of the stone banister posters, and let his skilled hands fly the whittling knife over a piece of wood.

"Would ye stop scarin' away the birds, ye tone deaf rake?"

"If I don't they might take ye' head fer a nest an' settle in", he returned easily and tucked the knife back into its sheath in the unrolled bundle of tools. "Hi, by the way." He stood, stretched… "How's ye' leg?"

…tense, no matter if he stretched. Tense and fumbling.

"Could've been better, could've been worse." Ngh, there should be a handbook for situations like this. First chapter: _how to start talking. _"Come down to formalities, has it?"

"It ain't formalities", Shizuku replied; and it really wasn't empty formality, when he wore that look. "I don't do formality: I care. But ye don't get that, do ya?"

Second chapter: _how to make the things you mean come out the right way._

"You mean I'm an unthankful bastard that doesn't like having people worrying for me?" Shiro developed, just to be sure. "'cause that's true."

"Yeah, sure is." Shizuku went on to brush wood chips and dust off his school uniform. "But more than that; ye don't get the concept of caring." With nothing more to brush off or fidget with, he crossed his arms to keep his hands still. He was at least as uncomfortable as Shiro in this. But he was no coward. "I'm not sayin' ye aren't a good friend. Ye're fun ta be 'round, an' a great guy in many aspects – but deep down? Deep down ye're cold. I saw that in yer eyes the day I hit ye; I think it's why I did it." …majestic; how he stood firm by his words, even when the breath that carried them quivered at the edges. "'cause it scared me. I didn't want that ta be you." He chewed at his lip piercing, nervous… but his eyes never left Shiro's. "Either ye were like that from the very beginning, an' I just didn't notice; or it's something ye turned into when ya started hangin' 'round Pheles. I need ya ta tell me which it is, an' I need it ta be the truth."

"Right. The truth is I've always had a cold side." He brought the switchblade out of his pocket. "I carry this around, don't I? And I know how to use it." He shoved it back into his pocket, and let his hand stay with it. "You said it yourself that I'm quite possibly the most unfriendly person you've met." He made a short pause, to let his next words build weight: "But I'm only like that when there's a need."

Truth – but not a truth that had Shizuku entirely satisfied.

"What was the need when Agari-chan was bein' shipped off ta the crematory?" Shiro suspected that if Kasumi hadn't been there, his flat tone would have had a much sharper edge. Shizuku wasn't buying it. But Shizuku felt strong responsibility for people. He _cared _for people. He was a good, compassionate person.

"_…I so shouldn't do this._"

The strings were there; all he needed to do was pull them. Carefully, carefully; like that fish-catching game Yasuda had been so good at.

"You would know, wouldn't you?" Just the right softness on the edges, just the right information obtained from Kasumi. "You've buried family, too. Still, you had each other; you've always had each other." The right smile, the right hesitance. "I had no one. And I haven't been… _close _to anyone, since." The right words – _can be forged into the key for any lock_ – oh, he shouldn't do this… "I haven't been to any funeral since, either. I'm only cold when I have to." The right sincerity, the right vulnerability. "And I only have to when there's something I need to protect myself from. I couldn't go, Shizu-san. I just couldn't." The right awkwardness; slightly faster paced speech to get it over with. "And Agari-chan loathed me, I know that. I don't think you wanna have a guy you hate say goodbye to you. It doesn't- It's not fitting; even a blunt, blundering idiot like me knows that. I know Midori-chan went, but she's not exactly like ordinary people. She doesn't view things the same as we do." Kasumi would agree on that, wouldn't she? And now: slow the pace, shift towards earnestness. "I know I looked fucking horrible by comparison, but I was trying to honestly respect Agari-chan the way I thought she would've preferred." _Just hit him! _memory echoed in his mind. "As her final wish." For him to be dead: that had been her final wish. "I really didn't mean any offence."

Guilt and excitement competed for dominance when he surveyed the fruits of his performance: Shizuku could understand the holes gauged by loss, good old compassionate pilgrim, he could see the discomfort emotional display caused Shiro…

_Is it worth it?_

"Always such an idiot…" The tension was off his face; there was even a smile, but there was also a line of worry between his thick eyebrows. "But why Pheles? Why would anyone wanna", quick glance at Kasumi, "make friends with a demon?"

"…well, I think you'd have to be an idiot to understand that", Shiro replied, pushing towards a lighter mood with a small smile of his own. "Or a Futotsuki. I'm a little of both. I-"

"Why don't ye tell 'im the story ye told me earlier?" Kasumi suggested with a Big Sister smile, and broke the standing formation by seating herself comfortably against the shrine foundation. "Best understandin' comes from real-life example."

* * *

It's such a basic human thing, to want friends. To sit down on a sunny afternoon with a stomach full of watermelon and amanatto and laugh at silly stories: the kind of simple, precious thing that lights the whole world with meaning. Shiro was human, so very human in that aspect: and it's very, very human to embrace the aid of a demon to get those basic, precious things you want.

"Why don'tcha come ta the crafts market next week?" Kasumi suggested, now sitting by the post where Shizuku had been when they came. "It's gonna be on Mepphy Land's premises, so it ain't far. Shizzy's comin'", she nodded at her brother, who was still giddy with laughter from hearing of Mephisto's cupcakes, "an' that tanuki boy, an' maybe Sen an' Midori-san. How's that sound?"

"Sounds just great", he said around his cigarette, stretched out on his back on the ground and propped up on his lower arms. "But I've got more exams next week than all of them together."

"An' fe' pulling that off, ye deserve one afternoon o' fun", Shizuku concluded from his spot on a rock next to the shrine stairs.

"An' it'll be my last day in True Cross Town", Kasumi added with a knowing smirk. "After that I head out east."

"Now that you put it that way…" Shiro let his wolfish smile reach full potential. "Careful, though: prolonged exposure to me might delay your departure."

"Just can't keep ye'self from playin' with fire, can ye?" Shizuku guffawed, but showed no signs of disapproving the approach. "Yer own fault if ye get burnt. Ye might wanna know", he added with a wicked glint in his eyes, "ye've got competition~"

"Stuff it, Shizzy."

There really was-? Pff, of course there was. Kasumi travelled the entire length and width of Japan, and she was cute to boot. There was no way there wasn't some guy somewhere who'd-

Realisation hit Shiro right in the face: some other guy? Kasumi met _hundreds_ of guys, and unless they had marbles for eyeballs at least half of them must be flirting with her. He was just one of many: _he _was 'some other guy'. She probably didn't even-

"Ye should see yer face." Shizuku wore a grin that showed at least two- no, wait; maybe three molars. "How many times 'ave ya been proposed to, Kasu? I stopped countin' when I started at True Cross, but it was at least eight."

"I've only had one more since then. From that guy."

"Oh~ _that _guy?" Shizuku looked just like his sister when she'd spotted teasing material. "S'that what kept ye an extra day with the Futotsuki~?"

Kasumi whacked him over the shoulder with her staff.

"What guy?" Shiro's big mouth asked for him. "_Great. That's _one _good thing closing my heart does: words don't fucking fly out of my mouth before I can think._"

"No guy." Kasumi used her staff like a rapier to jab the laughing Shizuku rapidly wherever openings presented themselves. "Just some asshat that's too dumb ta get a hint an' too naïve ta get properly told off." An unsuccessful dodge saw Shizuku hitting the ground. "An' that's not what had me delayed."

"Hey hey hey, I surrenda'! I surrenda'! Shit, man…" Shizuku rubbed his assaulted ribs, still chortling. "If Makoto-san knew how violent ye are, he'd save 'imself the trouble." He picked himself up and sat down on the grass next to Kasumi. "What kept ya, then?"

"I trekked from the Futotsuki's an' down here: passed St. Nicholas on the way." The mirth immediately evaporated from Shizuku's face. "They were still diggin' out the bodies, so I volunteered ta help."

"St. Nicholas…?" Shiro's ears perked up, and the word was out of his mouth before he could think. It didn't feel familiar on his tongue; yet he had reacted as if it were…

"Orphanage, northwest-west between True Cross Town an' the Futotsuki's territory", Shizuku summarized in sombre tones, and looked back to Kasumi. "I heard it was pretty bad."

"All bad an' none pretty. It struck in the middle o' night when everybody was asleep an' brought the place down like a card house." Haggard sadness, raw and sudden, discoloured her pixie face. "Ninety-two dead, no survivors."

"What struck? Demons…?"

"Oh, that's right: ye were away when it happened", Shizuku recalled. "Earthquake. St. Nicholas was built ta hold fe' that – it wasn't even a big one, but the orphanage was at the epicentre. An' it just collapsed."

St. Nicholas.

"_There's something about that name._"

"Well, it's a good thing the place was so isolated", Kasumi's voice drifted loosely through his thoughts. "Nothin' else around that could be damaged. Ye gotta be grateful fe' the small blessings."

"_I've heard that before; but why would that…?_"

"I prayed fe' them, when I heard about it on the news. 's the kind o' thing that makes ye wish ye coulda' done more, but…"

_St. Nicholas_

Why did that ring a bell?

_St. Nicholas_

Why was that name important?

_St. Nicholas_

Why did he feel like he really ought to remember…?

_St. Nicho-_

"Guys, I… need to get back to studying." _Immediately_. "If I'm gonna have that free afternoon with you at the market, that is." He stumbled up on his feet, glad he could blame the leg for the unsteadiness. "I've had a great day, really, but duty calls." Oh, it sure did. "Thanks. I'll see you around."

* * *

Shiro walked at fast pace down the sloping trail. When he'd rounded a turn, he jogged. When his thoughts were done processing, he ran.

Orphanage. Earthquake. Festival. Futotsuki meeting.

"_I see them._"

Strings thin as spider web, winding into the shadows; he wouldn't have noticed them, if he hadn't been at that meeting and seen them pulled.

strings hidden in the darkness

"_If it really is you…_"

connecting one thing to another

"_…if you did what I think you did…_"

weaving coincidences into skilful geometry

"_…then you have things to explain, Mephisto._"

with the spider at the nexus

* * *

**A/N:**

**Ring a bell: **recall something.


	25. 77: Chess

**A/N: Okay, A... sink or swim. ^_^' Your reviews make me giddy with joy, and I feel truly honored by your words: they also make me incredibly nervous. x') You like my characterization of Mephisto, and if you still like it after this... then I will breath a sigh of relief. I can only hope I've done this the right way. I hope I can swim.**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Daylight was dimming, but Mephisto was still in his office: Shiro could feel it. Feel it in every bristling hair on his body.

"_You are not worming yourself out of this._" His steps echoed heavily in the empty corridor. "_I don't fucking care if I'm one human up against the King of Time: you are _not _getting away with something like this._" The echo of war drums.

* * *

"Normally, people knock." The demon didn't even look up from his chessboard.

"Monkeys aren't people. I figured you wouldn't be very busy this time of day anyway." He sauntered over to the heavy wooden desk with his hands in his pockets – the lighter was already gone. "I met Kasumi-chan today: she told me to pass greetings to you."

"Then give her my greetings in return~ Charming girl, that; pity she has those distasteful tattoos."

Mephisto still hadn't even looked at him. Could it really be so concentration demanding to make the first move against yourself, or was he ignoring him deliberately?

"She should've been here yesterday, but she got held up on her way down from the Futotsuki's", said Shiro casually, and seated himself on the edge of the desk: if that didn't get Mephisto's attention, then-

*poof*

An armchair from the striped furniture set around the table appeared in front of the desk, demanding to be used.

"As I was saying, she got held up", he continued, rising from the desk but ignoring the chair. "There had been some kind of accident while we were away at the meeting. Earthquake, I think. She stayed and prayed for the victims – ninety dead, or around those figures."

"What a lovely date you must have had, with such topics", he smiled, still pondering where to place his first white piece.

"At least I _can _date her, warding tattoos and all. But we did get into discussing earthquakes." Shiro intently studied the thin lips, the hair curl, the ears, the eyes lowered at the board; anything that could betray a reaction. "The one that struck there – St. Nicholas, I think the place was called – wasn't very strong, but it still shook the place to pieces, and left no survivors. None, out of the ninety-two that lived there." No reaction. Idly turning his chess piece between his fingers, as if he wasn't even listening. "I just thought I should ask, since you've got a brother that's King of Earth", he ventured, connecting the dots Mephisto pretended to be blissfully unaware of. "If a weak earthquake occurs within a very small perimeter, can it still be that destructive?"

A very, _very_ small perimeter, with St. Nicholas in the epicentre.

"My brother is the expert, admittedly, but I suppose it could", was his reply. "Small quakes are very common, especially here in Japan. They seldom cause any damage – unless they hit gas pipes in poor condition, as I believe was the case with the one you speak of."

"You seem to know quite a bit about it." Doubt evaporated slowly off his heating temper as the perfect façade remained _perfect_. "Does that name ring a bell with you? St. Nicholas?"

"Never met him in person", Mephisto confessed. "Greece was a lovely place to live, in ancient times, but Christianity always did tend to spoil one's fun. I think we missed each other by at least eight centuries."

"I meant the place: the orphanage St. Nicholas." Shiro's voice took on an edge of crude, grating steel. "The one that was completely bulldozed in a very unnatural earthquake while you were getting yourself a perfect alibi at the Futotsuki meeting."

"Such harsh tones~" At least he looked at him, even if it was a blithe look of I-have-no-idea-why-you're-so-upset that tempted Shiro to smash his teeth in. "I'm King of Time, you know; I believe the one you should be directing your glares at is the King of Earth."

A silver tongue to veil any lie in the light of truth; a sweet voice to make bitter poison appear like pristine ambrosia. The most devious weapon in a demon's arsenal.

Shiro stared the black-suited, smooth-talking snake down over the desk. He could send an entire clan of demons to their death, fine: demon society, demon rules. But an orphanage of human children…

_There are some things you just don't do._

"So it's complete coincidence that that was the orphanage Agari-chan was from?" he said in low, calm tones that answered the question on their own.

The mask didn't slip, no. Mephisto could have been confronted with mountains of conclusive evidence and still worn that face of idle innocence. No: he took the mask off, and revealed the calculating amusement underneath.

Amusement.

Not guilt or regret or pity: amusement.

"Katsuda Agari, Komui Natsuya, Ayabito Susumu, Inoue Katsu, Sato Michio, Kobayashi Shizue." His lilting voice trickled over the names like a creek over rocks. "All orphans, adopted from St. Nicholas: all trained there to be fully capable exorcists before they ever set foot in my academy."

"_Trained...?_"

Orphans... trained...?

The words seeped into him like winter's breath through an old door. Trained orphans. An assassination squad of sleeper agents. Child soldiers for a suicide mission; children that had lost everything already, except their lives. What despicable mind would-

"St. Nicholas was a Catholic orphanage…" Pieces fit together; thoughts raced ahead, kicked in doors and surveyed possibilities. "It couldn't be, the Vatican…?" That wasn't the real question, of course. "_Why is he telling me this?_" Mephisto didn't play with open cards, not even with the promise of trust in mind. "_He trusts you alright_", a cynical part of his mind huffed. "_He trusts you to be smart enough to figure out his game through tracing strings and guessing riddles. Teaching you to think like a demon._"

Did he even want to-?

Oh, he wanted to. Danger had only ever spurred his curiosity on. There is a twisted fascination with mystery and malice in the human heart; and his heart…

_Am I a master smith? Am I shaping you this very moment, for some distant purpose in a future only I can see?_

…was marked by the devil in the high-backed chair.

"My Roman bed-mate may be a cold lover, but not so cold as to hide a dagger beneath her pillow", Mephisto said with an air of cool, well-measured amusement. "St. Nicholas specifically accepted children orphaned in demon attacks: aside the usual education, said orphans were also given rigorous training in exorcism and military combat. This somewhat unusual childcare was privately funded, by an anonymous founder who has turned out to be a Cardinal Basilio Tanzi." The chess piece rolled back and forth between his fingers, back and forth as he surveyed his game board with lazy, heavy-lidded eyes. "A Cardinal who, the day after the incident in Deep Keep, left his residence to live at an unknown location. The only contact the rest of the world has had with him since is sporadic messages by telex."

Shiro didn't play chess, but he knew enough of it to catch the irony: the piece between Mephisto's fingers was a bishop.

"You look awfully calm, given the circumstances. You don't think he's told anyone by now?"

"Omniscient am I not, but much is known to me: had there been whispers of my name in the corridors of Headquarters I would have known. Tanzi is a fool, not an idiot." He snapped his fingers and summoned a paper to his desk. "Chess is won by stratagem, not by numbers: he sent no army to contest me, but six assassins carefully cloaked in inconspicuousness."

He slid the paper over to Shiro, whose first thought was that the demon must've been in a hurry when he wrote. After a closer look, he discarded it altogether as something written by Mephisto. The crinkly paper was covered in crude, impatient handwriting jotted down with a plain ballpoint pen – which meant those splotches weren't Mephisto's deep red ink…

"Katsu Inoue came here 1965, and made a very good impression on the teachers: good enough to be admitted apprenticeship as guard in Deep Keep."

_Katsu Inoue: infiltration, armed support, recconnassanse_

"Komui Natsuya, Kobayashi Shizue and Sato Michio enrolled three years later; Katsu was in position by then, and had confirmed that the dimensional pocket could not be accessed without disabling the wards that sealed it."

_Komui Natsuya: marksman, armed support, reconaissanse_

_Kobayashi Shizue: low-level psychic, ability to dowse for energy signatures_

_Sato Michio: swordsman, armed support, reconassanse_

"Das Labyrinth des Limbus must've proven quite the obstacle for Kobayashi-chan: it wasn't until the last two cogs in the machinery were accepted into the Academy this previous year that they could reach the wards in there. Katsuda Agari bought her basic materials from True Cross Town and the exorcist supply shop, and devised an arsenal of surprisingly sophisticated timed explosive devices to wipe out the entire seal at once."

_Katsuda Agari: explosives technician, armed support_

"Ayabito Susumu was quite the interesting case", Mephisto mused on, resting his cheek in his hand with the elbow supported on the desk. "A genius of numbers that not only fortified the seal to isolate my heart, but drew up formulas for navigating inside my labyrinth."

_Ayabito Susumu: mathematician, specialised in surjective homomom homephism H-O-M-E-O-M-O-R-P-H-I-S-M_

And, tilting on its own down in one corner, smudged when the paper had been carelessly shoved into a pocket: _I can't spell recconnassiense, Aniue_

"He even learnt the chant from the Essene scrolls by heart." Mephisto turned the game piece over in his hand slowly, thoughtfully; and made Shiro's intestines tie themselves in knots. "I located the demon who told the Cardinal what those scrolls really contained, and she gave me the same name: Tanzi." The white bishop resumed its place on the board with a soft, clean click.

"And you can't find him…" Shiro murmured, eyes lingering on the bishop hiding behind its row of loyal pawns. The last man on earth who knew Mephisto's true name. One man that could ruin everything he had worked for during one and a half century.

"Tanzi spent near thirty years preparing for his move, and spent just as long preparing his retreat if it failed: hiding from me is very difficult, but he succeeds. He succeeds, because he knows who I am." The glimmer in the eyes was the same, and the sneer that danced on his lips was the same, but that was Samael: Shiro knew, because he noticed he had stopped breathing. "And he knows how eager I am to meet him. He isn't coming out of his shelter for as long as he lives, nor is there anyone outside it who could help him if he revealed what he knows. He hopes", there was a tone hissing around that word that sent chills down Shiro's spine, "that if he buries himself alive, silent and compliant, I won't see any point in digging him out." Shiro felt the demon's presence curling in on itself like a predator ready to leap. "It will be an arduous undertaking, certainly, but I do appreciate a challenge: it's very rude, if nothing else, to resign mid-game."

"_He hides it well…_" But an imprinted heart could tell that Mephisto was absolutely, hellishly furious.

"Tanzi may have surrounded himself with every imaginable defence against demons, but I will make him finish the game he started."

…and Shiro understood why Mephisto was sharing this information with him.

"I'm not doing it", he said coldly. "_Every imaginable defence against demons, but none against humans; is that it?_" He could see where this was going, and he would dig his heels into the dirt before Mephisto's smooth-talking got a syllable further. "I'm not becoming your private hitman. If you want the Cardinal dead, you're gonna have to do it yourself."

"Dead?" He looked genuinely surprised that anybody would dream of associating such a word with his pristine white appearance: although he was at the moment more fittingly dressed in pitch black. "Shiro, Shiro, who ever said anything of killing? 'To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill.'"

"And where do ninety-two orphans fit into that quote?" Cold heart, cold mind, cold voice: he didn't sound like a nineteen year-old, not even in his own ears.

"In chess there is always sacrifices." Mephisto's voice was light and carefree, but his eyes were sharp with focus. "Tanzi was well aware of that when he sent his assassins into the fray."

Shiro felt as though his windpipe had been blocked with a fistful of burning coal.

"_You inhuman fucking...!_" In chess there were sacrifices, yes: but reality wasn't a bloody game. Real lives weren't game pieces that-

_To a demon they are._

Time stopped, and his breath ached past the tight knot in his throat as he held the green gaze of the demon posing as a man: there was no guilt in that face, because demons feel no such thing. No pity, no shame, no concept of human right and wrong.

"_To a demon we're just puppets and playthings._"

Time regained momentum, and he shuddered involuntarily. His gaze fell away; fell to the chessboard, where the neatly lined-up pawns formed walls of faceless cannon fodder: genderless, featureless, unimportant meat shields whose sole purpose was to fight and die at the hands of the kings that moved them.

_…fight and die… in the gloved hands of the king that moved him…_

"Chess is a game of war", Mephisto spoke softly, seeing where Shiro's attention lay. "As long as war is waged, lives are lost: until one king surrenders, no piece on the board is safe." Green eyes sought his, and gloved fingers braided together to form a podium for the words that left the demon's mouth. "Some would say it's testimony of a player's skill to capture the king with subtly layered traps: the true master of the game, however, needs no traps or decoys. The true master is the one that can pull checkmate with the naked elegance of a single move." Mephisto rested his eyes on him expectantly, waiting… "The acme of skill." …waiting for him to make his move.

Shiro's breath fell from his lips, and the ground from underneath his feet.

Skilled he was. And not only at war games.

Checkmate in one move. Checkmate with only one piece: one piece that could ensure no others had to be sacrificed again. One piece that was prepared to do anything to wash its black conscience a little whiter.

Shiro clenched his teeth around the haunting echo of that single gunshot in Deep Keep.

One bullet

One chess piece

One choice

"_You devil…_"

Know your enemy, and you can predict his actions

"_No one knows the human heart like a demon._"

Predict your enemy's actions, and you can lead him wherever you like

"_No one knows mine like you do._"

To the true master, the enemy is but another game piece to be played

"_…I never played by the rules._"

"Let's be clear about one thing, Samael." Indeed, names are powerful things. Now that he paid attention, Shiro could see it affecting him, too. Mephisto didn't wince, as other demons would have; but he wasn't used to hearing that name any more than they were. "I don't give a damn about your schemes and vendettas. You'll do as you please – as you always do – but I'm not your game piece. I will not be moved by you, or anyone else. This pawn", he picked a matte black piece off the board, "is not part of the game." Without breaking eye contact, he grimly put the pawn down on the desk with a hard click.

There. A challenge. A declaration of war, against war, for continued war: it crackled in the air between them; demon and human, king and pawn. Let's see how he dealt with-

"Oooh, I like that look!" Liked? Mephisto seemed about to fly out of his chair with excitement, white-clad hands flat on his desk and eyes-

-Shiro had never seen his eyes opened up like this, had never seen them _burn _like this, never-

"Such determination! Such cold flame in those eyes! No use arguing against a man with a look like that upon his features: I bow to your decision." …what? "Your move may be rather, so to speak, unorthodox", the green eyes darted down to the pawn for a moment, and returned with only glowing coals remaining of the fire, "but the right to move is yours alone."

The element of surprise may be a fundamental part of war strategy, but no one could work it like Mephisto. He simply dropped the matter? Just like that?

Shiro's brow furrowed.

"You're not…? Not gonna go after the Cardinal, then?"

"There are countless ways to capture a king", he said flippantly, and produced a packet of chocolate-flavoured pocky out of the air. "'Water shapes its course according to the nature of the ground over which it flows', and so the strategy changes to suit the game." The pocky stick snapped between the sharp teeth in his smile. "I can play one piece short."

_And win regardless_, the unfinished sentence continued silently. _Though there might be a few pieces captured and sacrificed before I do._

"…I'll never figure out how you do it. How you switch from creepy-as-fuck back to normal like this." Shiro snapped his fingers. "If this is your normal", he added, studying the human face that housed no human mind.

No, completely unfazed. Calm and untroubled and mildly surprised. And amused. Always amused; no matter how dark or hostile atmospheres were, no matter if ninety died or nine hundred, there always seemed to be a smile hiding in the corners of that mouth. Normal wasn't a word that applied to Mephisto in any form.

"Stevenson made a rather good study of that." The demon underlined the statement with a tap of the half pocky stick. "Jekyll and Hyde are one and the same, separated only by human conscience; which I am, quite logically, not afflicted with. That's one of the great ironies my employers in Headquarters have always failed to see the humour in", he continued, amusement bringing his odd cadence to bounce to the idle conducting of the pocky. "While humans live a lie, demons are always honest about what they are." And with a conscienceless smile and a wink, he ate the remainder of the stick.

The ground... was back under his feet. More solid than ever before. More hard and uncompromising than ever before.

There was no demon Mephisto or person Mephisto: there was only Mephisto. The King of Time. A demon without conscience. So gruesomely honest that the human mind couldn't comprehend it.

"…I'm gonna have to think about that for a while", Shiro murmured, and put a cigarette between his teeth. "And I'm gonna need my lighter."

"You come to yell at me, and then immediately leave when you're done? Tsk tsk, such manners."

Manners...?

Shiro had completely forgotten that there was such a word: completely forgotten that even if he played human lives like puppets, Mephisto would always crinkle his nose at sloppy ties and saucers that didn't match the cups. Jekyll and Hyde, all at once, always.

"It's your own fault, in every way", Shiro pointed out over his shoulder, headed for the door and the long, _long _walk this would take. "I'll be having exams every single day for two weeks, Sir I-okay-all-schedule-drafts-while-I'm-watching-anim e. And I need grades to justify that scholarship you got me."

"Such a model student." Mephisto snapped his fingers, and the lighter returned to its usual pocket. "You will make a fine exorcist, I'm sure."

* * *

**A/N:**

**I don't use the name of any real Cardinal, since I'm not that keen on being accused of slander. I will give Tanzi the title of a real Cardinal, however; he can't very well go without one. =/**

There were few quotes on war strategy from Sun Tzu's _The Art of War_, and a few tweaked additions of my own to fit the chess metaphor.

**Omniscient am I not, but much is known to me **Quoting Göthe here, and choosing to go with his Mephisto before Kato's.

In the manga, Mephisto says "I know everything". Without _hearing _him say it, I have a hard time knowing if he means "I know everything (that has happened with Godain and your friends)" or "I know everything (literally _everything_)". He could probably mean the latter, given his convenient method of spying on anyone, but that would make him a tad OP imo. Omnipotence is no fun. ^_^' A character that knows everything and can do (almost) anything kills a story.

So I couldn't go with canon all the way, which I apologise for. x/ In my defence, he's just as curious as anyone else to "find out what lies ahead", as he puts it: so he might not know literally everything.

**The Essene** were the Christian sect that preserved and hid what we know as the Dead Sea Scrolls (that I used in arc 1). There's a fair amount of conspiracy theories around those, for those interested in such things.

**Surjective homeomorphism **I am in no way a mathematical-minded person. Merely wrapping my head around the terms I had to investigate to piece together this (admittedly self-contradictive) field of science made me haemorrhage from my auditory canals. I may have gotten things entirely wrong, too. x')

So, _topology_ is a field of geometry in mathematics that concerns deformation of objects in space: things, plain and simple, and how they can be stretched and bent in the dimensions they exist in.

_Homeomorphism_, if I have understood it correctly, is deformation from one shape to another. It's based on a set of continuous functions coupled with inverse functions, which in simple English means that object A will deform into object B, and then back into object A endlessly: the deformation only moves between object A and object B, nothing else.

That's where I added _surjection_. Surjection means that function A, B and C all can yield Q, and reversely Q can give you either A, B or C depending on which part of the graph (or in topology: which part of the object) you're looking at.

To sum it up, surjection is incompatible with the concept of homeomorphism; but if it theoretically _were _possible to use the two in junction, you would get a deformation of an object that is both erratic (turns into A, B, or C) and inconsistent between different parts of the object (one part may go from Q to C, while another decides to go from Q to A). You would get a house where your bathroom door could lead both to the bathroom and to the living room, closet, or pantry (or some stage between those) depending on the deformation of that specific part of space in the specific moment you open the door. You would get das Labyrinth des Limbus.


	26. 78: Choices

**A/N: I don't know... is it credible? =/ You might have to read more than once, it's hard to tell if he's made up his mind or not...** **I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Choice. The deceptively simple single-syllable word that rules every human life, and the entirety of human history. Each choice made is a chisel-stroke that carves the world to be: and each discarded possibility peeled away is the seed of a world that could have been.

Each choice shapes the future.

Each choice is shaped by the human who makes it.

Each choice shapes the human who makes it.

And since their very first Choice at the dawn of time, humans have excelled at choosing wrong.

* * *

"_Am I doing the right thing?_"

Shiro tapped the cigarette restlessly with a finger. Uncounted kilometres disappeared beneath his feet without taking him anywhere; smoke travelled in and out of his lungs without dredging up any answer. He wasn't the one pulling the trigger… but hadn't he just killed an unknown number of faceless, featureless pawns…?

"_Just like he did._"

Soldiers - _orphans_. Assassins - _kids_. How could words make such a difference? How is it that words decide if a victory is a loss? If the one who wins the loss is a hero or a murderer?

Words…

"_Yeah: all you need is words, you slippery old goat. They sure make life a hell of a lot harder for humans…_"

Mephisto didn't have any choice but to protect his secret: Shiro could understand that. If the Order found out who he really was there would be distrust and expulsion and a hunt that bordered on war; war with death tolls sky-high in the human ranks. In that sense, sacrificing a few to spare many…

"_They were kids._"

Indoctrinated kids that had never had a choice. Maybe they could have been reasoned with, could have been made to see sense and even end the conflict; and instead-

"_There are things you just don't do._"

There are unforgivable things, and it doesn't matter if you have a conscience or not: the act itself is- Tch, listen to the hypocrite preach! Wasn't he cold, when he had to? Hadn't he killed rather than reasoned? And hadn't he just made a choice that would kill even more…?

"_Fuck, I don't know, I…_" He ran a hand through his unkempt hair for the thirteenth time. Didn't clear his thoughts up one bit: embracing the imprint or suppressing it – what was he doing, really? "_Am I doing the right thing…?_" Leaving lives to be tossed and torn by the winds of war: not exactly the paragon of kindness. "_If I helped him get to the Cardinal…_" Help a demon get his claws on a man of the church? "_Hell – pick your poison, that's all it is._"

His conscience whined like a hungry dog at the back of his mind, pawing and scratching at him to do something. Well, what was he supposed to do? Back at the same old crossroads, with the same impossible choice: who lives and who dies? Sacrifice one to spare many…? Was it right? Was it wrong? Should he stand idly by and watch Mephisto hunt Tanzi down, clinging to hypocritical innocence, or should he-

"_Tch, he'll get the Cardinal, with or without my hand in it: my options are 'save people', or 'don't save people'._"

Should make the choice easier: should make it a lot easier. So why had he turned the offer down…?

"_I don't exactly care for Tanzi…_"

On the contrary: a coward who trained kids – no, _raised _kids, like lambs for slaughter – to fight his war, while he sat comfortably in a red dress in Italy and counted rosary beads…

"_He started this whole damn circus; let him have what's coming_", he thought grimly.

That was to simplify things. A lot. Shiro knew that. It was a different story from the Cardinal's perspective: of course it was scary to learn that Satan's son had wheedled himself into the Order. Of course you'd try to do what you believed was right… "_Choices: always these damn choices._" …but a man of the church ought to know better. Didn't they teach Forgiveness and Understanding and all those things important enough to earn capital letter?

"_That you have a crap dad doesn't mean you're crap, too. He might be a demon…_" Shiro drew a breath on his cigarette. That calm look on Mephisto's face, a look no human could wear when admitting something like that… "_…but hasn't he made choices?_"

Choices like leaving Gehenna for Assiah, putting his own life at stake in denouncing his father and joining the Order of the True Cross, aiding humans in building a force to resist the hordes of hell-

"_Training kids to fight your war_", Shiro chuckled darkly. "_And sacrificing demons to win those kids advantages in it. That's not chess you play; it's chess and shogi and othello, all mixed up with rules only you know._"

He blew smoke up at a darkening sky that was still light enough that you didn't feel like going to bed. A perfect night for walking. Summer paced with sure steps towards exams, and did her best to distract students with warm evenings and song of birds and cicadas in the heavy foliage in the parks. And less pleasant things. Daylight waning, he could feel the prickling attention of demons lick over his consciousness as he walked, and let his heart grow dead and cold in the warmth: the merry chirping fell hollow on his ears, and the magic shimmer of the sunset dulled. All around him, the world faded behind the veil of safety. Snug and safe like an isolation cell. No open cracks this time.

Oh, it had advantages. The reaction time between decision and action was much shorter without all sidetracking doubts laid out by compassion. The world around him was easier to survey tactically, with emotional response and other distractions dulled. He'd heard the word from Matsuri-sensei plenty of times after missions: efficient. A word a demon could use – what's an efficient exorcist, when you think about it? An efficient soldier. An efficient killer. A cold-hearted bloody machine.

"_If I help you capture the bishop, no other pieces need to be taken?_" he pondered, and drew another breath of smoke as he walked a world stripped down to its bare bones: a world of faceless chess pieces and positions that could be surrendered or defended. "_That's a nice bargain. I should take it, shouldn't I? You know it eats me, what I did down in Deep Keep. You know I'd have it undone if I could – that I would've saved everyone, if I'd had that choice._" He rested his eyes on the cigarette glow burning holes in the dusk. "_I have that choice now: you gave it to me._"

He frowned: even under lockdown, the wrongness of the words struck a chord of caution that made him shudder. Demons don't _give_: they _sell_. And that's where doubt gnawed at him: there had been no mention of what Mephisto would gain if he accepted the offer. Only that strange flare in his eyes.

"_I don't know what kind of game you play, but I'm not gonna be part of it._" Selfish. A selfish coward, just like his father; running from the mess he had helped create rather than- "_Fuck that_", he snarled at his thoughts. "_This ain't no ordinary mess._" Get stuck in that intricate shadow-web and you were never coming out of it. "_I'm not gonna be anybody's pawn: even if that means more people will die._" Shiro could almost feel the excited hiss from demons applaud his decision. His _choice_.

"Look tasty, do I?" he said to the night, and tapped ash off his cigarette. "Why don't you come at me, you fucks? Afraid of one puny human?"

He wasn't exactly armed, but one switchblade knife can deal good damage when the blade is soaked in holy water: and he was in the mood for fighting something. Thinking of impossible dilemmas frustrated him, charged his patience with a static that would somehow, sooner or later, have to be discharged.

"Tch, demons", he huffed at the darkness when nothing answered his taunt. "Always playing their bloody games."

And the more powerful they were, the more dangerous the games. It didn't bother him as much as it should have. The game. The scheme. The unspoken goal. Mephisto knew what he was doing: Tanzi didn't. There had never been an earthquake at St. Nicholas if there hadn't been exorcists there that knew secrets humans weren't supposed to know.

Humans like Shiro: how folly unites the human race! Tanzi and Fujimoto, the only two humans in the world who knew! The only two humans in the world that might have a chance at stopping the devil that pulled strings in the darkness.

Pff, "stop him"... Tanzi had tried, and now he was hiding in a warded bunker that would be his grave. "Stopping him" was a delusion for suicidal fools. Mephisto was far too smart to get caught, far too skilled at the game he played…

"_Heh… hehehehahahahaha oh you clever, sneaky son of a bitch…!_"

Far too smart to get caught, far too skilled to suffer consequences even if he were caught - but far too much of a gambler to play it safe. There's no fun without risk, no thrill without danger; didn't Shiro understand that better than anyone? Wasn't that why Mephisto had taken off the mask and offered him to play?

"_Not a pawn, but a joker._" He chuckled; chuckled the way you do when the devil reaches forth a hand and invites you to dance. "_Always appreciate a challenge, do you? A game within the game, a piece that knows it's a piece and moves erratically on the board; wouldn't that be fun? Wouldn't that be a much more interesting game?_" Wouldn't that be one hell of a dance?

The mere fact that it tempted him spoke volumes. Fujimoto Shiro the prankster, Fujimoto Shiro the daredevil: would he actually dare the devil, and play his game…?

"_You'd think I have a death wish._"

Yes, but not a wish for death: a wish for life. A wish for life the way it fluttered at the top of your lungs when it sucked the breath out of you. Some are cut out for a run-of-the-mill existence, some aren't. Some are born to gamble at the highest stakes; drawn like moth unto flame.

There would be even more choices on the game board; terrible choices, if you had a conscience. Mephisto would make the ones that furthered his cause – whatever the hell that was – without thinking about it twice, but Shiro would-

"_I would be the conscience he hasn't got._"

Off the board, you can only watch the game.

On the board, you can play it.

On the board, he'd have a say against destroying orphanages and-

"_Is it worth it?_" Kasumi's voice. Kasumi's face, sincere with emotion. For him.

Shiro's fast pace geared down to a halt.

"_If Shiro-kun wants to pretend is fine, I will pretend it is._" Midori's eyes, filled with melting gold…

Choices aren't isolated events. There are ripples on the water where they fall, touching everything that lies around.

Shizuku talked to him again. Kasumi flirted back when he made advances; he would go to the crafts market with both them and Ryuuji, he had a scholarship to continue his studies, a promising future as an exorcist… For the first time, a promising future.

It's easier to gamble when you haven't got so much to lose; when you haven't got so _many _to lose.

_Is it worth it?_

No. No, he was better off beside the board. Tanzi was a fool for thinking he could play against Mephisto: wouldn't he be an even greater jackass, if he thought he could steer the game on the demon's own half of the board? No, the stakes were too high, the gains too uncertain. Leave it to the demon to play: to whatever end that meant.

"_I have no idea what your goal is, but…_" Shiro stomped out the cigarette butt on the paved walkway. "_…I know you want Assiah safe._" The conviction that held the ground firm under his feet whenever he lost himself in guesses and speculation: Mephisto wanted Assiah safe. It was a downright ridiculous claim to make, unless you knew who that white-clad jester really was. "_You could've destroyed it all long ago if you wanted to. You could've enslaved humanity in a day and built a new Gehenna with yourself as king. It's been a thousand years and more, and you still haven't._" The strangeness of it all condensed into a small smile on his lips; the kind of smile Midori smiled, aglow with secrets and the soft warmth of knowing not in mind, but in heart. "_You may not have a conscience, but you really do like humans._"

Not all who knew Mephisto's identity had made that connection, however. Cardinal Tanzi ought to have put two and two together when he learnt Samael's true name: instead, he had chosen to wage war against the most powerful demon that had ever set foot in Assiah. Attack in chess, and you will receive due response.

"_I don't know what you think, Mephisto, but to me he sounds like an idiot._"

* * *

Smart people can make stupid choices, and stupid people can make smart choices: because Choice is a wild guess veiled in the illusion of free will. Choice, just like Chance, is a deceptive nature, revealing its true form only in the curves and dents of the future it creates: whether a choice is right or wrong is left for time to uncover. But, regardless, some things will always be true.

Each choice shapes the future.

Each choice is shaped by the human who makes it.

Each choice shapes the human who makes it.

…and even at the dawn of time, when humans made their very first Choice, the options were whispered into their ears with serpentine sweetness.

* * *

**A/N: ****Who else plays chess, shogi and othello at once, with messed-up rules? **Orihara Izaya… (Sometimes I wonder what  
would happen if these two met. I think Armageddon is a fair guess.)


	27. 79: Names

**A/N: Okay... Never written a chapter like this before. Are you ready? Am I ready? Well, here goes...**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

_Samael_

Centuries had passed since anyone spake that name to him - ah, depending on how one would define 'speak', of course. The spoken word was ever his ally: it was shield and sword and dagger, key and lock and chain; truly, there were words for every need. The unspoken word, however…

One word spoken may have the power to lay nations in ruin, but the unspoken word can rend the fabric of a world: there is no lock to keep it out, no shield to guard against those silent syllables that could send memories unbidden rippling through flesh and mind.

_Samael_

Names are powerful things. There had been a time when Matter was pulled out of the Void by Name alone, and given the shape and purpose inherent in that one true Name. Those had been glorious days, stupendous days; days of marvel at the power that reverberated throughout Creation; from the timid dewdrops on a blade of grass to the slow breath of newborn mountains, that power, that splendour… faded.

Ages had passed since then, and Names once radiant had faded: light dimmed, darkness greyed, edges unsharpened; a driftwood world abandoned to the river of time, shorn by disasters and smoothed slowly back to the nothingness from which it once rose. Ages, ages past count and contemplation. Now was the Age of Man, and new creation shaped the world: too weak to know true power, too young to remember Names, humans shrank from the Void in awe and turned to things their minds could understand – and how they used their minds! Ever curious, ever yearning for more than they possessed, they rode high on achievements' intoxication in search of new things to desire and obtain; claimed the thrones of gods and shaped the world to the whims of a thousand minds, shaped it twisted and horrid and beautiful! So many new things, so many new names, and amidst it all…

_Samael_

…amidst it all, an echo transported across millennia through the mouth of a mere human boy. A Name from an age when names held true power; an age when there had been Beings in the world that knew how to speak those Names and command that power.

An echo…

In that boy's face today, there had been an echo… an echo of kings and warlords long dead; great men of great name in the world of Assiah. The faint, dying echoes of the Ones that could speak Names.

"_A pawn, Shiro…?_" The corners of his lips curled as he picked up the stray piece. "Don't humble yourself, little lion", he murmured softly, watching with lidded eyes how the dimming light reflected off matte black as he turned the pawn between his fingers. "Humility is ill suited for the paths you will be walking." The game piece returned to its proper place with the smooth, barely audible click of well-greased cogs turning. "Men like you take life not in single steps but strides." Gloved fingertips walked slowly across the line of marble: castle, knight, bishop… "And reach road's end sooner."

His finger lingered on the queen: an unstoppable force, able to move in any direction, ready go to any lengths at one swift command from the game master.

_Samael_

One day, perhaps, if Lady Chance would have it so; if that blazing fire didn't burn itself out before then, before that little lion grew proper fangs…

"Slave under the yoke of Curiosity, yet each weight Knowledge adds to your burden spurs your desire for more; is it not a twisted, vicious circle, Shiro~? Is it not a beautifully mesmerizing maelstrom into the dark depths, where jagged teeth of rock lie in wait for prey?" he purred, tongue curling around the words like a serpent's tail. "So many broken bodies litter the abyss of Temptation; so many souls eaten empty that consume themselves in rapture… but you won't be one of them, little lion." The queen tilted under his finger, tilted to stare up at him without face or eyes. "Men like you don't break from Temptation's fall, nor perish in the fires of Perdition: men like you rise out of the pit like shadows of shadows born; emerge from flame tempered strong like fine steel." The grin widened as his eyes traced the paths of the future – oh, what a future! – and the possibilities they promised. "What a man you could become, Shiro~"

It was in the nature of every human to shape the world around her; but it was men like him, men with iron will and hearts strong enough to act on it, that shaped humans. Great men that shaped the great milestones of human history.

Fujimoto Shiro - ah, surely, one day that name would leave an echo of its own in the consciousness of men. A most peculiar aspect of names, that was: while Names shaped their bearers, plain human names… were shaped by the bearer.

_Samael_

How very different it sounded, coming from a human mouth. Not a Name, but a name: a mundane name without meaning, unshackled with the potential to be whatever its speaker wished it to be. Indeed, names… were powerful things.

"_I long to see what kind of name you will shape for yourself, my lion._" Laughter wound its way up his throat; a trickling snicker at first, and a spring flood by the time it spilled from his lips. It ricocheted off the walls, washed down the windows like heavy rain, and made the leaves of the plants in the office curl in on themselves protectively. "Won't be moved by me, you say~?" Gloved fingers swept the black pawn up from the board and dangled it above his head, like one would hold a praline before letting it fall into one's mouth. "That's the beauty of this game, Shiro." The toothy grin widened: a jagged ravine at the bottom of the maelstrom. "The pieces move themselves: all it takes is a little… motivation~"

* * *

**A/N: The manga will probably hang me later for playing with names like this: but I will keep playing, die smiling, and regret nothing. ^w^**

**Beings that can speak Names?** Have you thought of how strange Tamers are? Humans that can call demons to appear and make them do their bidding, I mean… holy crap. 8/ How do they do that? And why can only some humans do that?

Two conditions are set for becoming a Tamer: you need strong spirit, and something Neuhaus vaguely calls "natural talent". Those who lack spiritual strength will find that summoned demons disobey them, as we've seen with Kamiki: those who lack "natural talent" can't make demons come to them at all.

So what is this mysterious "natural talent" that somehow gives certain people a connection with demons? I substituted "natural talent" with the somewhat more tangible "strong blood" in this fic (you don't remember that, but I wrote it in ch 11 in arc 1). Going back to Kamiki, she thinks it's obvious that she can  
summon familiars, since she's related to a miko. Based on that, I'm chancing a guess that "natural talent" would be something you're born with, and  
something that can run in families: thus, "strong blood".

Well, I play and twist and splice fragments together like a mad scientist… and my thought here is that that strong blood used to be much stronger, long ago, when Creation was young and the Beings that could speak Names (= call upon things) and command the power Names gave (= make the things they called upon do their bidding) still walked the earth. The abilities you see in Tamers are diluted echoes of their power.

Who those Beings were…? Well, a little bit of reading and a little bit of guesswork, and I'm sure you will figure it out. ;)

**This chapter is the last you get for quite a while, as I will be going on vacation to Japan. =) Now, I really hope I will return from it, too: but in the event that I get hit by a car, or boil to death in an onsen, I'll take the opportunity to thank all you lovely people who read The End of the Beginning. Some of you I've gotten to know pretty well; others I know only by (staggering!) numbers in the diagrams, but thank you ****_everyone_**** for reading.**

**/ Dimwit**


	28. 80: Mind matters

**A/N: I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.  
**

* * *

****"Good luck with Knight."

When your sworn enemy wishes you luck, warning bells should go off. Shiro's sole excuse for being deaf to them was that he had been listening to Kita with half an ear – if even that – while the greater part of his overworked brain was absorbed in whether or not he'd gotten it right with the stoichiometric calculations for the antidotes against spider bites.

The Doctor course was a massive one, and largely theoretical in nature. Shiro's head felt like a mushy, over-ripe peach after the five-hour exam, and his pen-hand might never recuperate. He would have his exam in biology the day after, and he was not looking forward to it. Might even be worth trying one of Sayuri Moriyama's experimental herb lotions to keep the stiffness from reaching all the way up to his shoulder.

Thankfully, next exam was purely practical.

Kita's words came back to him when the speaker asked the holder of starting tag number 8 to enter the examination area. "Good luck with Knight" - perhaps with a tiny, tiny hint of irony…?

"Don't eat sugihira mushroom, Shiro-kun!" Midori beamed, and waved with her entire arm as he left the antechamber and headed out into the arena.

"Sure thing – why ever the hell I'd do that…" He gave a short wave as he walked, and tossed his head to get the darn hair out of his eyes.

"Means 'don't do stupid things'!" he heard her say before the steel door shut behind him.

Knight exam looked a lot like a gladiator game in a Roman coliseum. The fancier coliseums had been designed so that the terrain could be changed to host battles in both open arena, city environment, or at sea: True Cross Academy chose an easier variety, by having Futotsuki-sensei summon a kitsune that created an illusion in the arena. To Shiro's relief, he got a city environment. Ryuuji had been worrying him with tales of lava pits full of salamanders; something he'd heard from his brother, but Shiro had strongly suspected that was just Ryuuji being played.

The exam took place in the great pit where students usually practiced close-combat against leapers, goblins and such. With a little help from the kitsune, it was now vastly larger than in reality, and refurbished with buildings, cars, benches, cables leaping from lamppost to lamppost: everything. A real, proper city.

"_I should be used to these things by now._" He touched the wall of a pharmacy, and felt the perfectly rendered surface of rough stone under his fingers. "_But it's just so damn cool._"

The demons they faced in exams were fairly low-level ones, decided by lottery just like the order the students entered. Shiro could vaguely feel a presence off to the right, gripped his katana tighter, and cast an eye around. Rush straight to the target and the teachers – who were sitting in the metal hub above, or around the edge of the pit – might think he was cheating somehow.

It was a bit eerie, in fact. The landscape was perfect, down to the occasional cracked pavement tile on the sidewalk; but the attention paid to every lifelike detail only highlighted the fact that the city was dead. It was an empty shell that the mind populated with phantom reflections in shop windows and imaginary movements in the corner of one's eye. And it was very much like going back in time with Mephisto.

Shiro circled a few blocks deliberately, making his way towards the demon as if he was searching blindly for it. The katana felt heavy and slippery in his hands. Nerves? He rarely felt that, when his mind was focused and his heart closed. He hadn't thought he had let slip that much.

…no, he _hadn't _let slip.

Shiro paused under the blue marquis of a grocery store. The tip of the sword was quivering in is grip. He stared mutely at it, half expecting an explanation to leap off the blade. The faint motion mirrored in the wide, dark window of the store, where a ghost reflection of him was framed in bright red kanji that advertised fresh vegetables. He sure looked funny; hair hanging down over his glasses, and those strings Mephisto had given him to hang on them, and-

-and-

Shiro stared at the sword in his hand, heartbeat rushing into his throat. Blood. He didn't know where the hell that came from, but his katana was dripping with blood, and he-

_plunged the sword into Katsu's gut his face went empty with surprise and the blade went all the way in like-_

Shiro dropped the sword with a gasp. …there was no blood on it. He stared at it for the longest time, aware only of the rhythmic heaving of air in his chest.

"_What is this?_" Memories of Deep Keep flitted before his eyes and whipped his heart rate into thunder. "_What the hell is this? The demon isn't here, I can still feel it at least two blocks away it hasn't moved it hasn't-_" Close your heart. Focus. Survey the situation and make logic decisions. "_Whatever it is, it's only in my head. I'll find the demon, finish the exam, and then I'll find out what's going on._"

He bent to pick the katana up – and pulled back as if it had been a venomous snake. Blood gushed out between his fingers, _pulsed_, heartbeat in his hands-

"What did you do, Shiro-kun…?"

He stumbled around, hiding his hands behind his back.

"Midori-chan? I- uh, is it your turn already…?"

She shook her head with a weak smile-

_a smile for the lost_

"Is your turn", she breathed with tears in her voice. "I saw it. I'm sorry, Shiro-kun."

Her words grew icicles in his lungs. She _saw_…?

An eternity passed, from the moment she raised her sword to strike until his body reacted and moved. An eternity looped around the fear of that very moment-

_she knows what you did_

The sharp song of steel cut the air where Shiro had stood. He twisted mid-jump and landed on all-fours, barely touching ground before he leapt for his own sword. No time for thinking about blooded hands, unless he wanted the blood to be his own-

The reflection in the shop-window caught his eye for a split second: and the fingers that curled around the handle were limp and powerless…

_one doesn't have to be born a demon to be like one you were never a saint to begin with_

…and bore claws.

"No…"

He hadn't felt anything, he _couldn't_ be possessed – could he? Midori should know: she always saw the core of things, but she-

Raised her sword in the reflection, with tears streaming down her cheeks: raised it for a kneeling execution-

_a mercy-kill for one she couldn't save_

"No!"

This couldn't be happening, he wasn't that far gone, _he wanted to be saved dammit!_

Shiro twisted and met her blade with his own, met her crying eyes that said she was doing this _for him_. For his sake, for his own good – before he could hurt anyone again.

"Midori, I'm not a demon! It's me, it's Shiro!" He blocked heavy blows with steel that only grew heavier in his hands. She should _know _it was him, fuck's sake, she should _smell _that it was-! Maybe _she_ was possessed? "_Then why the hell is my reflection the one with horns?_" This didn't make sense – _nothing_ made sense…! "It's the idiot that walked in on you and Sen!"

"It was in your eyes, when you came back smelling of him: death." She advanced with silent tears running down her cheeks, aiming to trap him against the wall. "It found a home in you, the dreamless sleep. Is not going away."

Midori… always saw the core of things…

"You hold on to it, Shiro-kun", she sobbed, adjusting her grip on the sword. "Is not going away. I'm sorry, Shiro-kun, I am."

Shiro dodged the next sweep and circled out onto the deserted street, feeling strings of control coming undone. This was insane - try as he may, he couldn't separate what was real and what wasn't. Was that the real Midori or some illusion? Was he possessed or was she? The demon wasn't even _close_, how did something like this...!?

"It's a mistake!" The sword was lead in his hands, and he had to remember what Gokuro-sensei had taught him about using his muscles without damaging them. "Look, the demon must've done something with us! Whatever you think you're doing, stop it!"

Those words…

His voice rang muffled in his ears, as if coming from far away – as if the atmosphere was different, as it had been when-

"Shut your mouth", Agari's voice hissed from Midori's lips – or was it only in his mind?

_cut her throat and killed her watched her fall down dead like a doll_

…overlapping his vision… like multiple exposure in a photography… he was there again…

_she will kill you unless you kill her_

Agari raised her sword to strike, and he thrust forward on reflex-

-Midori's bright golden eyes wide with horror-

_it found a home in you and you will kill again you will kill everyone you love_

Shiro tweaked his blade aside with a terrified gasp - _what the hell was he doing!? - _and Midori's sank through the flesh in his arm like a spoon through jelly.

"Haahngh…!" That was real, that was _fucking _real…! "_Don't drop the blade, whatever the hell you do, don't drop the blade!_" It was so heavy, and it hurt so bad, but he had to hold it up to block…! "_Allow the muscle fibres to contract smoothly, not in a jerky manner, and not for too extended periods of time_", Gokuro-sensei's words flashed through his mind, and he clumsily prevented Midori – Agari? Midori? – from skewering his liver.

_she will kill you..._

Shiro's heart rushed adrenaline through him at mad velocities, drowned the pain in his arm and beat sound out of his ears – everything happened so suddenly… and his mind was slowly cornered into detachment, considering what it might have to do to survive.

_...unless you kill her_

It crawled out into his tissues, crept under his skin and choked reason with thick, buzzing webs of fear: fear of what was happening, fear of himself, fear of-

"_I don't understand what's real and what's-_"

…multiple… exposure…?

In the shop window, behind Midori… there was one more shape moving in her reflection.

"_It all started when I looked at the reflection._"

Hyperventilating through clenched teeth, Shiro backed away from Midori and raised his sword with both arms fully extended, tip aimed right between his eyes. And thrust.

A thin squeal, and the pain was gone. Midori was gone, the wound in his arm was gone; and a small breath of miasma swished away from his face, headed in the direction of the demon's presence.

Shiro relaxed his tense muscles smoothly and let the katana slip out of his grip onto the dusty asphalt.

"Reflecting surfaces", he breathed, taking a moment to let his heart and nerves settle down. It fell off him like snow from a pine in winter wind: big, heavy sheets of glistening cold fear, releasing their grip on his mind. "_It was just illusion... just illusion... thank god..._"

He knew what he was fighting, finally: an ikelos. A demon that preyed on one's darkest fears and gave them form. They usually tapped into sleeping minds, since they were more susceptible to that kind of influence, but some of the stronger ones – the shape-shifters – could possess objects.

…one thing had not been an illusion created by the ikelos. The sword was much lighter when Shiro picked it up again, but when he jogged towards the demon's presence it grew heavier: slowly but steadily heavier. "Good luck with Knight"?

"_Good luck with Knight when you've got a _baryon_ possessing the sword!_"

Stupid bloody thing, he should've realised…! But he had been too focused on the presence of the demon ahead to notice the weak, inert one he had literally in his hand.

Shiro was about to exorcise it, but thought better of it. No, he'd keep the sword like this and show the teachers after exams: Kita would hang, he'd make damn sure of that.

It was obvious, when he peeked around the corner of a barbershop and saw it: a visible, oozing veil of miasma hovering over the windshield of a parked car, and little stolons trotting about on stilty legs around it.

"_How was that chant again…?_" Shiro leaned his head back against the brick wall and closed his eyes for a moment. "_Kakariko kokekokko, no, that ain't right… Kokuriko kikkiree._" The best thing about studying all classes at once: you  
always had something to fall back on. Shiro opened his eyes, put one index finger to his forehead, and spoke the  
words aloud. "_That big, huh…?_" It rose out of the windshield like a huge, twisted jack-in-the-box of liquid darkness.  
Shiro gripped the katana with both hands and drew a deep breath. "_Right…_"

Windshields are made to be sturdy. If hit, they can crack and bend, but they aren't likely to shatter: unless you have a sword weighted by a baryon, and inhuman strength to swing it around with.

* * *

The exit opened to the smooth hum of automatic machinery as the speakers crackled and told the holder of tag number 9 to prepare for Knight examination. Shiro dragged himself through the wide doorway, stained black by miasma residue… and felt the weight evaporate from the sword. The presence of a weak demon flitted briefly against his senses, and disappeared. A glance at the base of the steel frame revealed a small cup of salt on each side, along with wards: safeguards against demons leaving the examination area. Of course.

"_Aren't you a clever little fucker?_"

Which by no means meant Kita was getting away with this.

* * *

The only good thing with exams was that regular classes were on hold until they were over: two exams a day, and the rest of the day off.

That's not to say it wasn't taxing. Most students had twelve-or-so exams to take, if they had cram school on the side: Shiro had stopped counting his after sixteen, and decided that looking further ahead in the calendar than three days was probably very detrimental to his health.

The day he set his eyes on was the one when he would go to the crafts market with his friends.

"Gotta tame this shrub before that", he muttered at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he eyed his next opponent: his hair. It was so long he should be able to make a tiny ponytail in the neck, and he could imagine Kasumi's delight in doing precisely that. "_I'll just cut it today, save the bleaching for tomorrow._" And add the final touches of cutting as he did: it was always a bother, getting it right at the back of his head with just a handheld mirror and a pair of scissors.

"_What the…?_"

When Shiro was done, he stared at his reflection. Getting an even cut in dead angles was the least of his worries.

* * *

**Sugihira mushroom** - is called Angel Wing in English, which is a fitting name both visually and in terms of what it does to you if you eat it.

**Ikelos** - means "likeness" in Greek, and is one of the names of Phobetor, the embodiment of nightmares.

**Kakariko kokekokko** - ...I just couldn't keep myself from it. =w=' If there _were _a chant like that, I'd use it forever and always: "Attack, my invincible chickens!" ÒwÓ (good thing Dimwit can't become an exorcist) I don't know how many times I got myself killed in Kakariko Village just 'cause I couldn't stop bothering the chickens... x'D


	29. 81: Playing with fire

**A/N: …**_**he**_** did it. ê_ê *points to Shiro* I have no idea what went through his mind; he just did it.**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created. Jag tvivlar på att det någonsin kommer att bli ändring på det, heller. **

* * *

Not bothering with knocking, Shiro pushed the white double doors open and trotted into Mephisto's office. It looked the same as usual: traditional Japanese construction coupled with posh, old European furniture that looked soft but was brick-hard to sit on. And Mephisto sat behind his desk, as usual.

The world didn't care if he was King of Time or plotted gruesome vengeance against an Italian Cardinal. The world minded its own business and let everyone else – demon and human alike – mind theirs. The world is incredibly nonchalant in that sense.

Mephisto's desk had suffered an influx of even more misplaced children's toys since Hello Kitty had made its real break-through. Shiro had seen a headband with the weird little cat when he went to buy food just a few days ago, and had spared a moment to wonder if Mephisto would wear it if he gave it to him.

"Evening, Cuddlebun." The demon looked up from the summaries on exams so far. "Imprint acting up again, I think."

"Imprint, you say?" There went the lighter: he really should put it in a different pocket. "And here I thought you actually missed me."

Purely out of instinct, Shiro ducked – and a shriek sailed past his head as the wastebasket panda missed its target, hit the backrest of an armchair at an awkward angle, and landed gracelessly on the floor.

"No, but I did miss this little guy." He sat down on his haunches by the wailing, rolling familiar. "Hello, you little pest." It wailed higher, and wiggled back and forth. "You brought this on yourself, you know." The wails became more miserable, and the dark patches around its eyes changed shape, as of eyebrows tilting to show dejection. "Nope, not gonna cut it. My kidneys still don't forgive you." He bopped the panda's button nose with a finger, and smiled as it gurgled and snapped at him. "I'm only helping you 'cause I can't stand your whining, you hear me?" He lifted the wastebasket back up on its, uh, bottom end – and scowled. There was something… else… "Right, right: I see", he sighed, and fished around his pocket for the starting tag from Knight exam. "Look, jumping on people is how you get treats from _him_", he stabbed a thumb in Mephisto's direction. "With me it's fine to just… come rubbing up against my leg, or something. Eat this and be quiet."

Shiro had deliberately ignored Mephisto in favour of the panda, and was rather surprised – disappointed, even – that he didn't get any sulky remark for it. But he hadn't seen the very attentive, very interested looks Mephisto had been giving him while being ignored: and when he did turn to face the principal, those looks were gone as if they had never been there.

"When do I get treats for being a good demon?" He leaned back in his high-backed chair and cocked his head to the side with a sweet smile.

"I can toss trash at you too, if you like." Shiro stood and stretched, feeling his muscles remind him of the day's exams. "Anyways, weird stuff's been happening. I cut my hair today-"

"With marginal improvement."

Somewhere, in a parallel dimension, Mephisto was not a principal but a hairdresser.

"Compliment duly noted", he smiled with mock politeness. "And do you notice anything besides that?"

"You missed a bit, just above your right ear."

Strike the previous: he was a hairdresser in this dimension, albeit not a practicing one.

"Well, I'll fix that later. Anything _else_…?" He strolled up to the desk to give him a better look.

"Looks about the same to me."

"Exactly." Shiro ran a hand through his prickly hair. "There should be a black growth at least two centimetres long, but there's nothing: it's white down to the roots. And I haven't bleached it in a month."

Nothing more effective than to kindle a demon's curiosity. Mephisto beckoned him over, rose, and proceeded to tug off his gloves. Damn, he was tall… Well, Shiro was aware of that by now, of course: aware of it, but acutely reminded of just _how_ tall he was when he stood right in front of Mephisto and was a whole head shorter.

"Is there anything else different with it, save the colour?" The principal combed through his hair and ground hairs together between his fingers to produce a rustling, sand-like sound.

"It's thicker, I think. And stiffer." The scraping of claws against his scalp made Shiro tense… But the touch was light, and the exploring fingers gentle; and when he stole a glance up at the demon's face… "_He's being… cautious…?_" Oh, but he had to be. If you can snap beams thick as a man's arm, you have to be very cautious around something as frail as humans. "I'm thinking that might be the reason you couldn't fix it for Hyakki Yagyou", he added, talking to Mephisto's cravat.

"Plausible…" Fingers moved to Shiro's chin, and the tip of the thumb's nail fleetingly touched his lip as Mephisto tilted his face upwards.

This… was starting to feel awkward.

"Your eyebrows; were they white before?"

"Um…" He preferred staring into the god-awful cravat, he decided. It was a lot harder to speak with those sharp green eyes scrutinizing him so close: so close you could distinguish a faint corona of blue around the reptile pupils. "I'm not sure. I used to bleach them, but it was bothersome in the long run, so I only did it every other time I bleached the hair or so. I don't remember if I did them last time or not. But either way", he detached himself from Mephisto's fingers, "they shouldn't be white anymore."

"And yet, they are." The demon tilted his head to the side and let his eyes roam across Shiro's face once more. "What of your beard?"

"What beard? You gotta have a magnifying glass to see the few hairs I've got", he huffed, running a hand over his barely scratchy chin. "But it's been even less visible than before, now that I think about it… Probably white, too." For a split second, he thought Mephisto was going to keep inquiring about the state of his hair in various places. _That _would've been awkward...

"I don't think the imprint did this", he mused, stroking his goatee in thought. "Indirectly, perhaps. Three things are known that can cause this kind of change in the body, and those are malnourishment, stress, and shock." He counted them on his hand, thumb to middle finger. "Your stress level can be presumed to have been rather high, with studying for five Meisters. And then we have the incident in Deep Keep." He tugged the gloves back on as he spoke, and the claws vanished into space that didn't exist outside them. "A human body isn't meant for that kind of power. That you survived is nothing short of a miracle, but had you survived without a single mark to show for it I would've doubted you were human at all." Once clad again, his hands came to rest on his hips. "A shock of that magnitude could definitely be traumatic enough to make your hair turn white prematurely."

"So it's always gonna be like this…?" One step closer to the old lady-look Kasumi had predicted for him: wonderful.

"Yes – unless you dye it."

"Why would I?" Shiro took a step back, for personal space. "Saves me the trouble of bleaching it once a month." A sudden thought hit him, and he burst out laughing – to Mephisto's bewilderment. "Fufufufu well~ I figured you'd give me grey hairs one day", he said, stroking his chin and pulling a crooked grin to go with the gesture. "Just didn't think it would be this soon."

"Such an unjust accusation: leave you to your own devices and you wouldn't live long enough to grow grey hairs at all", he countered dryly, taking a step forward to maintain the distance between them.

"Good thing I have a guardian angel to look out for me, then." Shiro took another step back, and crossed his arms with a cheeky look. "What would your fellow demons say of that title?"

"I'm sure they would find it highly amusing", he snickered, advancing a step into Shiro's private sphere. "And the Roman Curia would vomit blood. I always did wonder why you bleach your hair, though. Initially, I thought it was because of your name."

Shiro simply stared.

"Seriously? What kind of idiot would dye his hair to fit his name?" He stepped backwards again: more pointedly this time. "Other guys can worry about straight ties and creased trousers. Girls notice that kind of stuff up close: a guy with white hair they're gonna spot a mile away in any crowd."

Mephisto looked like he hadn't considered that aspect, but that he did see the point in it: and he took another step forward.

"…is this some new weird game of yours? Mirroring my movements like that?"

"There's an interesting expression passing over your features when I do – too brief to be properly studied, but nonetheless noticeable." Such an annoying smile, and even more annoying to have it dropped on your head from high above. "Does my proximity make you _edgy_, Shiro-pon~?"

Shiro was about to threaten his curl – he _had_ promised to tug it if it was within range, and it definitely was – but was suddenly overcome with a much… _better… _idea.

…actually, it wasn't better. It was stupid, and risky, and he couldn't understand why he would even come up with such a-

Screw it: it would be fun.

"Don't know if 'edgy' is the right thing to call it…" he said with a sassy drawl, and stroked his fingers down the tress of purple hair that he had once clipped with a katana. "What would you suggest, prince of words and wit?"

"Playing along, all of a sudden?" Mephisto made no move in response to the advance: only looked very, very curious of what would come next. "To what end, I wonder~?" _Know your enemy, and you can lead him wherever you like_.

"Wanna find out…?" Shiro closed the distance between them, every nerve in his body curled into a tight, quivering knot. "_I might not be your type, but I know how my enemy works._" And there's nothing more effective than to kindle a demon's curiosity: "Then play the game~"

"I could lose my job for that." Calm voice, calm face - and the hungry glow of lust seared the edges of them both.

"Only if they find out", he pointed out with a sly smile. "There's many things you've done that the Order doesn't know of, right? Something minor like this…" He trailed a finger down Mephisto's silk cravat, and hooked it into the buttoning of the tailcoat with a suggestive tug. "This… what's the word for it…?"

"I think you'll have to elaborate a bit on what you mean: it's difficult, at present, to find the proper word without more… solid_… _material_._" A hand found the small of Shiro's back, and pushed his hips to rest against Mephisto's legs.

Oh, he was an idiot, playing with fire like this – but the _thrill_…!

"_I'd make a fine demon_", he thought, recognising the tantalizing tug of instincts that weren't his: instincts that took pleasure in leading and luring and manipulating. "I'm bound to agree, your highness", Shiro followed on, pitching his voice and expression to perfection. "It's difficult to find the right words when distracted. Nothing against your taste in clothes…" he let a wicked leer onto his lips, "…but I think I'd find them less distractive if they weren't on you. Einsu…" He undid the top button of the tailcoat. "Zuwei~?" Fingered the second button…

"Keep those hands in check, Shiro", he purred in a way that spoke the opposite of his words, "or I might have to show you entirely different ways to do a tie~" And with the expertise of a stage magician, Mephisto yanked the garment from his neck in one fluid motion.

"Durei~" Last button undone: Shiro ran his hands slowly up the burgundy shirt that covered the demon's skeletal chest, leaning in as if to kiss him, and peeled the tailcoat from his shoulders as he did. "_This-had-better-work-or-I'm-in-real-deep-shit._" Mephisto followed the motion to let it slide off his arms… "_I win._" … and was left wide-open when Shiro assaulted his midriff.

"Nh-what are-iheheheheihihihihiii!" Reflex bent his thin body to counter the tickling, and he was effectively halted by the tailcoat that held his arms back. "Nheh-ah-ahhahahaa you little devi-nyahahahahahaaa st-stop thi-hihihihihii!"

"No can do, I fear!" Shiro's cheeks cramped, as did every other muscle in his body, when he struggled to prevent Mephisto from throwing him off. "I simply _can't _keep my hands off such an _exceptionally _good-looking demon!"

"You-hihiihii-you'llpayforthisyou-fuahahaahahahaha -ah-ah-_awfu_-ahahahahaha!" He managed to wrap his arms protectively around his abdomen, and prompted Shiro to find new ways of keeping his advantage. "Ow! Ow ow ow stop iiiit!"

"Such an un-manly shriek, your highness~" Shiro didn't let go of the hair curl until Mephisto tried to shrug his tailcoat back on and free his arms, and in the process left himself open again. "Still got trouble finding the proper words, have you?" he grinned from ear to ear as the demon tottered on his feet and virtually _cried_ from laughter. "I think what you're looking for might be 'uncivilized, insolent, double-crossing mo-'"

Shiro didn't hear the gleeful squeak over Mephisto's laughter: and by the time he did, it was too late to duck.

The panda hit him right between the shoulders. Lovely. He fell headfirst into Mephisto, who was too uncoordinated to stand properly anyway: and, in all, it was no great surprise that they ended up on the floor. With the panda bouncing happily around them, waiting for its reward.

"_Like bloody shoujo manga_", Shiro groaned inwardly. He'd managed to halt his fall before he landed flat on Mephisto; although, in terms of suggestive positions, their current one wasn't much better. "Your panda is never getting treats from me again", he informed the face below his.

"You should be more concerned with what treats you will bribe _me_ with, if I'm ever to forgive you for this."

He did look rather affronted, Shiro decided, as laughter slowly abated from the demon's features.

"Well~ you wanted know to what end I was playing along, so…" He shrugged as best he could with his wrists caught in iron grips at each side of Mephisto's shoulders. "I guess the morale of this is 'curiosity killed the cat'?"

Or soaked it in vinegar, if he read the demon's face right. The tips of his eyebrows practically touched at the base of his nose, and there was an unmistakable, rhythmic twitching in his curl: in all, he looked lovely. Perfectly pissed and perfectly lovely. It would take a generous bribe to wipe that look from his face, and even then it wouldn't-

"You're gonna give me hell for this no matter what I bribe you with, aren't you?" Shiro inquired matter-of-factly. _You think?_ said the one quirked eyebrow that answered him.

"In that case, I'll just wait for payback to bite me", he said, no longer able to hold back a self-satisfied grin. Better savour the moment while it lasted: payback would bite hard. "'cause no matter what your face says, you do enjoy a good game of wit." No reply, save an even more sour look. "_Sulk all you like, but you're not denying that I'm right._" Shiro wiggled fingers that were starting to feel rather numb from lack of blood. "Now, would you mind letting me go, so you can plot your gloriously sweet revenge in private…?"

Mephisto's look changed from one of irritation to one of saccharine malice and poisoned promises.

"Sweet it will be, rest assured of that~"

With those words, he let go and snapped his fingers.

*splash*

"_Should've guessed as much._"

The water wasn't deep, but it was _cold_ – and the bottom was covered with rocks, which his knees had hit with jarring force. Shiro stumbled up on his feet with colourful curses and tried to determine where he was. Nothing but trees around – wonderful, Mephisto had dumped him in the middle of nowhe- Ah, no, not in the middle of nowhere. He recognised that outcropping rock, and the partly hidden ward that hung under it: he had landed in the well Midori used for bathing.

Shiro sighed, then chuckled to himself as he fished his tie out of the water.

"Yeah, I'm an idiot…" Mephisto could have snapped his bones like twigs in their tussle, even if he didn't mean to. Playing with fire like that… "_I wouldn't get old enough grow grey hairs, you're damn right about that._"

Was it worth it?

Shiro got his sopping wet feet up on land, hoping to leave that question behind. Playing with fire was a dangerously addictive bad habit, and one bad habit leads to another. Playing with fire was fun: playing with hellfire… was starting to become his new addiction.

Some people aren't programmed for survival: Shiro was willing to admit he was one of them. He was reckless – he certainly was – but he wasn't stupid. He kept a respectful distance to the grand games Mephisto played, but the smaller ones they played on their private two-man board were simply too much of a temptation to pass up. Reckless, but not stupid: at least he hoped s-

"Right…" Shiro groaned at the deepening shadows. A cigarette hung from his lips, and his hand was in an empty trouser pocket. "_Not gonna see that lighter ever again. And it was such a good one..._" Cigarette lolling between his lips, and shoes squishing out water with every step, he set a medium pace down towards the distant noises of the night market. "_I'm not taking it back, if he gives it to me: he'd probably tamper with it to make it blow up in my face or something._"

Oh, come now: Mephisto's revenge would be more spectacular than that! Anything less than getting his hair dyed pink and being paraded through True Cross Town naked would be a disappointment. Curiosity killed the cat, indeed, and it's true not only for demons: a curdling tension tickled Shiro's gut when he tried to guess what Mephisto would do. Heavens knew that particular demon was a creative bastard… and even more so when his grandiose ego had taken such a fine bruising.

"_…_worth it", he grinned to himself, thinking back on Mephisto's acerbic glares: an addiction difficult to resist.

* * *

**A/N:**

**White overnight? **You can't find any evidence that says shock/trauma could make hair white "overnight", but I have seen something to that effect happen to my adoptive uncle (people who don't have kids can adopt kids, so I don't see why people who don't have uncles couldn't adopt an uncle). He went from sandy blonde to white in a week or so, after falling and breaking a few ribs – and since this is fiction, I'll take my chances and stretch the concept. ^_^'

**Idiots…** What kind of idiot would dye his hair to fit his name? An idiot like Kinzo Shima…? xD Oh, but I like that guy. So stupid, random, and loveable. (kin = gold, shiro = white) So, although we see a Shiro with grey hair in the anime, I will run with it as white. Because it fits his name. (Obviously, I am the kind of idiot that would do something like that. x'D ) I don't think he'd keep dying it until he's old, so this kind of explanation… works?


	30. 82: Brewing storm

**A/N:**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Shiro had felt the shirt glue to his back during the maths exam. The pen had been slippery in his fingers, and fine creeks of sweat had tickled his temples and stained the paper in the stifling summer heat: but oh how grateful he had been for having maths!

Being stiff and sore from exercise was nothing new to him – Gokuro-sensei had seen to that, as P.E. had moved into more combat-oriented fields – but this was on a whole different level. Yes, he could make his muscles perform beyond their limits; but like employees forced to work overtime, they made sure he felt their displeasure afterwards. It ached. It _creaked_. It felt like his joints were ball bearings full of gravel and his muscles sprinkled with splintered glass. But it also meant his body was adapting to the increased strain, and growing stronger.

Shiro didn't take one more step than necessary outside, clinging to the shade the buildings gave and-

"Smoking on Academy premises is still not permitted, Fujimoto-kun." Well well, if it wasn't the same hot prefect that had spotted him on the first day of this school year? "That's your third warning: you're going to the principal's office."

Shiro didn't bother checking his grin. He rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets and the glowing tip of the cigarette lolling up and down between his teeth like a dog's tail. Going to the principal's office, eh?

"It's a week and a half 'til graduation: do you really think he'll bother kicking up a fuss about this in that time?"

"He will, if it's the school's most notorious pest", she snapped confidently – hmm~ he did like a girl with bite.

"The school's most gifted prodigy", Shiro corrected, earning a scornful snort from the prefect. "Tell you what – exam results are announced before graduation, yeah? My name will be in the top ten." And she would believe that when carrots grew out of her ears. "If it's not, you can report me to Me- Faust. And for good measure, since you look so cute when you're glowering at me, I'll even confess a few things I've done that haven't been put on record." She was doubtful, but listening. Excellent. "That I promise", he added, taking the cigarette butt from his lips. "But _if _I'm in the top five…" He dropped the smoke and ground it out under his shoe, leaning forward with his best rascal-smile as he did. "…you give me a kiss."

"You're shameless!"

"You're pretty."

She was. Blushing and glaring at the same time – such a cute little thing~ And she did, in the end, accept the bet.

* * *

Come afternoon, Shiro had meticulously eliminated all wonky hair-tufts from his cut, shaved off what little facial hair he had, and silently cursed the universe for the red zit that had sprouted above his eyebrow. That last thing aside, he looked fresh and ready for going to the crafts market with his friends; and with certain friends' cute sisters.

The universe doesn't normally take offense when humans across the globe blame it for various misfortunes; sometimes, however, it does. When Shiro left the dorm building, the universe had knitted its eyebrows into a sinister black palisade of thunderclouds and glared balefully at him, and the swallows skirted low in the billowing air over the Academy's sun-heated rooftops. The universe got its message through rather clearly, and he doubled back and fetched a free-to-use umbrella from the holder in the dorm hall.

Weather didn't bother Shiro. When other children at the orphanage had sat indoors, reading or playing board games in the blinking light of faltering light bulbs, eleven year-old Shiro Fujimoto slunk out the window – the doors were always locked when there was no one to supervise outdoor activities, he recalled – to stand in the hammering rain and feel the force of nature churn his blood. The iron-fenced yard was different when storm came: even dull, confining orphanage grounds could gain a vicious beauty, when nature crushed the manmade illusion that it could be controlled. Light drops drew frothing breaths of steam from the sun-warmed pavement; heavy drops whipped the ground into a hissing cauldron, and the sky lowered itself down onto the rooftops, so close he could almost touch it…

"_And the thunder…_" A nostalgic smile ghosted his lips.

Some children curl up under their bedcovers when thunder rolls across the sky; others want to stand in the midst of it, and feel the booming waves streak their skin with goose-bumps. Then rain had washed down the collar of his shirt and licked it stuck against his skin, and he'd laughed… glowing, like the fog-wrapped cracks of lightning above…

The orphanage staff soon learnt where to look when he went missing. It was always Shiho-sama who came running out under a yellow umbrella, grabbed his arm and marched him back in. She was left-handed; his cheekbone remembered, from all the times her wedding ring had struck when she slapped him for getting soaking wet in the rain. Or other inappropriate things he did: there were quite a few of those, after all.

Weather wasn't the problem, when he trotted down the walkway to pick up Sen and Midori at their dorm. There were other creatures than unruly little boys that stirred when the sun was swallowed by dark skies, and his leisurely day at the marked promised to be not as leisurely as he'd hoped.

* * *

Sen had embarked on an ambitious project to teach her girlfriend how to properly style hair, and had lent her long, raven black curtain to experimentation that seemed to involve all styles at once. More than one student they passed by looked the other way to hide their smiles, but Sen didn't seem to care at all; of course. She was far away from other humans. Far away from strong emotion that could tip the balance between her and her goblin familiar. Far away from caring.

"_And she's lived like this for years…?_" Shiro didn't know what to think of it. Was it tragic? Was it proof that it was possible to live half-alive? Should he grieve for her, or should he consider her an inspiration…?

"Do you think it will like it there?"

Shiro had just enough time to catch sight of the lizard's tail before it disappeared into the mess that was Sen's hair.

"I think it's a lovely home for a lizard", he chuckled with a smile.

Sen responded with one of her distant smiles, and Shiro hoped to high heavens that his own hadn't looked like that. Her smile had always made his skin crawl, but he'd never before been able to pinpoint why. It was the smile of one who knows what a smile looks like, but hasn't smiled a true, heartfelt smile in years.

Midori, who was the expert provider of lizards, cast one glance at him, one glance at Sen's hair, and returned her golden eyes to him with her eyebrows crinkled together and lips pursed in an offended pout.

"What? I'm not saying anything mean about it", he pointed out with a shallow grin as they strolled down the stairs from the academy campus.

"Mouth is quiet, but face is loud."

Midori preferred walking on the low stone banister, jumping over every knob and pouncing on the small lizards that skittered into cracks and joints. She didn't bother at all that the saffron-yellow yukata she wore wasn't intended for that kind of movement – but, on the other hand, it didn't bother Shiro either. She had such nice legs…

"Sorry, I didn't catch that", he said, snapping out of his daydreams with a sheepish look.

"Your face speaks very loud, little ero-kun", she tittered like raindrops on leaf gold. "So loud you hear nothing else, hm~? I said I think Sen looks cute in that."

"I think she looks like a fashionable broomstick in that."

To that, Midori slapped him over the head and shot him a reproachful glare, marred only by the laughter that tugged the corners of her lips.

"_You_ were raised in woods, not me."

"You will never get a girl by being honest, Shiro-kun", said Sen with that smile that made him cringe inside.

"Too bad, he likes girls so much~" When the stairs left them on the road to Mepphy Land, Midori jumped down next to them. "Shouldn't Shiro have a girl for market day, hm~?" she chirped, and telepathically conveyed a devious plan to Sen through a single, sparkling glance. "Or maybe two…?"

"Two is a good number", Sen agreed, and hooked her arm into Shiro's. "Two is for balance in duality."

"And two is amount of arms", Midori fell in, swiftly yanked the umbrella out of his grip and replaced it with her arm.

"Number of arms", Sen corrected at his other side.

"Number and amount; is both not for how many there are of things?"

"Just what are you two up to…?" Shiro definitely didn't mind strolling through town with one girl on each arm, but when said girls were plotting together any man would do well to be wary.

"We make sure you have a girl to go to the market with", said the little fashionable broomstick with a dead smile and eyes that twinkled in a way oddly reminiscent of Mephisto's.

"I'm quite sure I would've managed that myself", he replied with raised eyebrows.

"No you wouldn't~"

"Not when you have two already."

For then all _available _girls would think he-

"That isn't fair", he complained.

"But you enjoy it, ero-kun~"

"I can at least enjoy people's jealous glares", he observed, craning his neck to see the throng that milled at the brightly coloured entrance to Mepphy Land. "Speaking of that: would you care to ensure that I have a girl or two to celebrate my graduation? This old man's on his final school year, after all."

Sadly, no. Sen's father celebrated his sixtieth anniversary, and both she and Midori would attend. Getting to and from the Futotsuki village was a bothersome business: they had to leave immediately after their last exam to arrive on time, and they had planned to remain there over summer.

* * *

**A/N: Reply to UmbrellaBat: **Hi there! I'm so happy to hear that I… ruined your studies… x'3 Every author likes feedback, even more so when it's so overwhelmingly kind. QwQ Thank you! Since you don't have an account I can PM, I'll answer your question here.

**It's inconvenient, in a way, that you bring up that particular conversation. x') The vague phrasings throughout the dialogue in ch 39 are, in my opinion, deliberate and there to confuse. I tried to sort it out, but I can't say that I know for sure how it should be read. ^_^'**

**I find it hard, many times, to bring my ideas of the underlying structure of AnE into writing that is comprehensible to others. I've organised it as best I could in a fairly linear way, but I'm not sure I'm getting my thoughts through. ^_^'**

**So this was my line of thought behind the interpretation…**

**I don't trust Samael. **^_^' Pure survival instinct, probably. He's the kind of character that forces a reader to adopt the world-view of a conspiracy theorist. 1. What you're being told serves a hidden agenda, and what you're _not_ being told are the things that you really ought to pay attention to. 2. Whenever you encounter strange phrasing of words, you can assume it's done to conceal something (and from there, the first imperative applies).

**Samael has a habit of telling parts of the truth only**, namely the parts that will make people do what he wants them to do. In ch 39 he wants to motivate Rin to work harder, and to that end he shows him how much he has left to learn before he can stand a chance against Satan. Rin gets the whole tour, with a practical demonstration of the kings' powers and a run-down of Gehenna's hierarchical structure. The part of the truth that Samael _doesn't_ tell him is that the kings are powerful because they are Satan's sons. **It's a logical move**, but it complicates things. It's logical to withhold that part of the truth, because if Rin learnt that Samael is also Satan's son he might become (even more) suspicious of him – and Samael, well; he wants a weapon aimed at his father, not at himself. It complicates things, because that means Samael wants to hide the fact that the kings and Satan are connected, and will lay his words so that they seem to be two separate groups of demons with no relation to each other: as he does in ch 39. And that's where I began to develop a headache… =.=' **Whenever you encounter strange phrasing** of words, you can assume it's done to conceal something. In ch 39 we're given three terms to complete the chaos: _Gehenna's hierarchy_, _royal family of demons_, and _Gehenna's men of power_. That, to me, looks very odd. =/ There's no reason to confuse Rin with three ambiguous terms, unless confusion is the very purpose. **The central question** you posed is if those three mean the same thing, and the answer is that I'm not sure they do. We're _made to think_ that they do, but that's probably Samael's/Kato's intention; and I can say, in vague words so as not to spoil anything for you, that Kato has pulled some major ruses on her audience in AnE before. I do not put it past her to hide some crucial scrap of information under Samael's smooth tongue, but what that information might be I'm not qualified enough to decipher. I broke those three sentences down to the extent of my abilities, and better than that I cannot do… ^_^'

If Amaimon is "Gehenna's seventh man of power", and there are six kings above him and eight kings in total, it's safe to assume that "Gehenna's men of power"refers to the eight kings, Satan excluded. _**So that's one down.**_

However, Samael uses "the royal family of demons" interchangeably with "Gehenna's men of power" to speak of the kings only; and that… puts scowl lines between my eyebrows. Think about it. The royal family of demons, but the kings' father doesn't count? They wouldn't be brothers, and by extension wouldn't be family, if they didn't share the same blood through their father, no…? I would argue, unless demon genealogy follows some mighty strange rules, that Satan is indeed part of the royal family – but that's something Samael doesn't want Rin to know. =w=' And by stating that the kings are all there is to the royal family, he's effectively cutting off its blood ties to Satan. _**And there, we can't be certain anymore.**_

It seems to me like he's establishing "Gehenna's men of power" and "the royal family of demons" as apart from Satan, whether or not that is true in that last case. We're inevitably stuck in a loop of "is he lying for the benefit of his plans or is he telling us the truth – or parts of the truth?", and I'm afraid we're not getting any further there. "Gehenna's hierarchy" is slightly different from the other two, but in no way easier to pin a definite denotation on. It has no immediate context, as the others have, so I resorted to analysing its constituents as best I could. "Gehenna's men of power" and "the royal family of demons" are both restrictive, singling out Gehenna's power-elite and its blue-blooded inhabitants respectively. "Gehenna's hierarchy", in a strictly linguistic sense, denotes the hierarchy in Gehenna as a whole. There's nothing in it to restrict it to any caste of demons specifically; but it could also be worth taking into consideration that there's nothing in it that could tie Satan to the kings in any other sense than that they all live in Gehenna. That means it should be a safe term for Samael to include Satan in, since it doesn't give away their family relation. Does he include Satan in it? "Det vete fan", as I'd say in Swedish. "Only the Devil would know." Kato is good at this, and this time around I'll admit she defeated me. x') **Analysis of language** yields uncertain results in this case, since I can't tell what the original phrasing looked like in Japanese. "Men of power" sounds to me like something that could denote a distinct concept that exists in Japanese but not in English, for example; some word relating to social hierarchy in ancient Japan, or such. A linguist's analysis doesn't necessarily reflect what the author's intentions were, either."Gehenna's hierarchy" I interpreted in a strictly linguistic sense, and TEotB utilises that hierarchy as the complete power structure involving every being in Gehenna, Satan included. If that is correct, Samael is the most powerful of the kings: if it turns out "Gehenna's hierarchy" only includes the eight kings, I'd place my bets on Azazel the King of Spirits as number one. (I'd also have to figure out how to work my way around that in the fic, which promises to be one huge bitch of a task. x') ) **Just as a curious note** on the subject of translation, it's debatable whether "half demon" is the correct label for Rin's existence. People who know kanji better than I do have remarked that AnE doesn't use 半悪魔, whichwould bethe most straightforward way of saying "half demon", but the much longer and more ambiguous 本物の悪魔とのハーフ. This would be read literally as "half with a pure demon". I'll leave you to ponder the meanings of that; I've been wagging my figurative chin for far too long already…

**Pardon the lengthy line of thought. ^_^' It's a suggestion for an interpretation: it's not a claim to absolute truth. I'm happy to share (most of) the musings I build this fic on, but since they tend to look more like essays it's done on request only. x') I hope it made things clearer for you, UmbrellaBat: and if it didn't, throw a rock at me and I'll try to word it better.**

**/ Dimwit**


	31. 83: Catching up

**A/N: I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created. **

* * *

The market completely ignored the impending downpour. Between the usual booths had cropped up a myriad of yatai and stands erected by artisans, and Shiro had a slight suspicion Mephisto might have had something to do with the flag posts that had magically appeared to enclose the market corridors in frames of cherry pink. An inviting smell of takoyaki, yakisoba and other fried foods hung in the air, weaving between excited children's shouts and adults discussing if it would be the _Hanshin Tigers_ battling _Hankyu Braves_ for the championship title this year, or if it would be _Yomiuri Giants_. Shizuku, Kasumi and Ryuuji all took part in the market, but had agreed to meet up with them for an afternoon snack and a stroll through the transformed amusement park. However, when they converged at the temporarily closed Go To Hell rollercoaster, only the Honda siblings were there.

Shizuku wore his pilgrim's clothing, which somehow made him look older, and beside the usual roll of tools he carried a cloth-bag of assorted wood pieces over one shoulder. Kasumi had opted for a pale yellow, criminally tight-fitted yukata that left little to imagination, and she had tied her hair into a traditional bun as opposed to her usual bushy tuft.

And despite Shiro's best efforts, he couldn't keep the sight of her from making his heart bubble like a teakettle in his chest.

"Well, well – seems like ye dressed up fer nothing, Kas-hrrk…!"

"I've been getting' more commissions than 'e has, an' he's a li'l cranky 'bout it", Kasumi explained, while her brother choked after having had his Adam's apple rapped with her fan. "Sellin' goods is easier if ye put goods on display, if ye know what I mean", she winked.

"Oh, I believe you", Shiro grinned, making now secret of his admiration for her… goods.

"Izza lowly trick", Shizuku croaked, rubbing his throat.

"If ya had the parts ta pull it off, ye'd do it too, Shizzy~" Then she heaved a sigh. "Though it worked betta' before I got the wards tattooed, I admit." She tugged at the folds of the garment: the ward on her chest showed clearly, and the ones on her lower arms peeked shyly out of the sleeves. "Anyways, Tanuki-boy's ova' there." She pointed her folded fan in the direction of the ball pool and the children's merry-go-rounds. "What's 'is name again…? I always fe'get."

"Ryuuji-san", Midori responded, which elicited an amused snort from the little pilgrim.

"Pff, 'e's no dragon, that one. I think I'll stick ta calling 'im Tanuki-boy. 'e got held up back there, talkin' ta some musicians that complimented 'is playin'. 'e said 'e'd come find us later, so I say we locate some nice grub while we wait." She cocked her head to the side and gave the trio a quizzical look. "An' I hate ta ruin the cosy threesome for ya, but that one with the glasses is a guy."

"Shush, I'd finally managed to fool them..."

* * *

Twice during their walk did Shiro sense the unfelt touch of demons prying for a way into his heart. He tried to keep up in the fast-paced verbal exchanges, tried to put on a smile that didn't look like Sen's, but staying vigilant kept him from putting any emotion into it. He was smack in the middle of a busy market, surrounded by his best friends, and yet… he was alone.

It shouldn't be so hard. There's bad days and good days, pebbles and puddles; he might not like being stiff and cold, but he had to put their safety in the first room. It shouldn't be so hard; but when you're alone in the winter cold, and you see others laughing and talking in the warmth on the other side of the window… then all you want is to be there with them.

Kasumi and Shizuku couldn't come to his graduation either: they were going to walk to their mother for the anniversary of their father's death.

"Your mother is not dead?" Midori asked, unhindered by the social graces the others had been brought up with. Somehow, she managed to walk arm in arm with Shiro while balancing the umbrella vertically on her forehead.

"No, not dead." Shizuku sighed with exasperation as yet another responsible mother guided her child over to the side that had less pierced delinquents on it. "When I said she doesn't walk the roads anymore, I meant it literally. She was crippled the day dad died, so she works at a handicraft centre down southwest now, roughly a week's walk from 'ere. Sorry ta say it, Shiro-san, but I think ye're gonna hav'ta rely on Tanuki-boy fe' company on ye' big day."

"We could always celebrate before we leave", Kasumi suggested, snatching the umbrella from Midori's forehead and sticking it under Shiro's chin with an impish smirk. "Shizzy tells me ye've got a free day Wednesday next week – an' since 'e's such a nice little brotha', 'e'll handle some o' my commissions if I ask 'im to."

She was… asking him out on a date? Shiro cast a glance at Shizuku to see if he'd heard it right, and was greeted with a face of _if ye don't get _that _hint ye're gonna live out ye' days in celibacy_.

"Sure thing", he smiled, grappling for a heart that skipped away over flower-strewn meadows and made rather embarrassing leaps and twists. "_Did I just imagine my heart as Mephisto's wastebin panda…?_" Well, it wasn't far from it. "Anything particular you had in mind?" Shit, that sounded suggestive. Hopefully she didn't catch that.

Oh, she did – but Kasumi just chortled merrily at him.

"Well, fer one I hear ye've been training fe' Pheles 'imself at swords. That's a skill I'd like ta see fe' me'self, so if ye're up to a sparring match or two…?"

Fighting on first date? That was a new one. On the other hand, he'd never dated a girl like Kasumi Honda.

"Fufufufu is good to test a male before mating~" Midori tittered, making Shiro blush violently and look at anything that wasn't Midori or Kasumi, or any other being within earshot. Talk about being raised in the woods…

"Well, I… don't think that's quite what I meant, Midori-san", Kasumi added with an awkward chuckle in her throat.

"Mh, because you don't have noses." She shot them that smile that knew everything they didn't, and Shiro wished he could disappear on the spot. "Smell doesn't lie."

"And if I light a cigarette?"

"They stink", Midori pouted.

"Midori-san, ye're the sweetest thing I know", Kasumi said, scratching Midori behind the ear. "But humans an' demons are a bit different, even if the smells say the same thing."

* * *

Sen and Midori made it a sport to stay latched onto him, and when the Honda siblings went to select nikuman Shiro was dragged along to locate pork yakisoba. It required some coordination to weave their way forward, but when Midori caught the desired scent she could probably have dragged them there. Shiro narrowly swung their arm-to-arm chain out of the way for a little girl with an ice cream cone, and instead bumped into-

"…Shiro-san?"

"Yasuda-san…?"

Midori and Sen turned their eyes to the awkward silence that bloomed between the two graduates-to-be. Shiro hadn't spoken to Yasuda for… eight months. What do you say to a guy you haven't talked to for eight months?

"It's been a while." …yeah, that's one way to do it. "Sorry. I was an asshole last time."

"Yeah… you were." Yasuda still held his chopsticks halfway up to his mouth with yakisoba; never were good at multi-tasking, that one. His gaze darted back and forth from Shiro to the lady company, and he seemed to doubt if that choice of words was appropriate.

"How's Fuji-san?" Wonderful subject to bring up. Still, small talk was better than silence. "I haven't seen him in class for a while."

Yasuda had to run the question through his mind a second time, and lowered the chopsticks into the paper box in between.

"Fuji-san was taken out of school four months ago."

Shiro's turn to do a double take.

"What?" He'd thought Fuji was ill or something. How could he _not_ have noticed tha_-_ Four_ months…_? "You mean his dad _did_ cut the financial supply?"

"Mh", Yasuda confirmed. "Fuji-san simply stopped giving a damn, and you know what his dad was like: if the investment doesn't bring the money back in, pull the plug on it."

Yeah, he knew what Mr. Hirawara was like – except this was his _son_, not market shares.

"_And whose fault was it that Fuji stopped giving a damn…?_" One more person he should say sorry to, if he ever met him again.

"I see you're more successful than ever?"

Shiro snapped back to the conversation he didn't quite follow – although, it wasn't that hard to guess what he was referring to.

"Sadly, I'm just here for decoration. This is Sakura Midori", Shiro nodded his head to the right, "this is Futotsuki Sen", he nodded his head to the left. "And it's not me they're dating, but each other." And what a look Yasuda pulled, though he tried to hide it quickly. "This guy's Tanaka Yasuda, from my class."

"Will you eat that, or can I…?" Midori was casting longing glances at Yasuda's yakisoba, and Shiro remembered they hadn't actually bought any yet, even if they were right at the yatai.

"Midori-chan is a bit special", he explained. Then he recalled Sen's spectacular hairstyle: "And Sen-chan is special in her own way, so I suppose they fit well together. Look, we're just gonna buy some food, okay? You can get started on your own meanwhile", he said, unlatching himself from his escorts to bring out his wallet. Yasuda just nodded quietly in that manner that means he politely agreed that both Shiro and his new friends were a bit special.

It was awkward, but at least it seemed to be going in the right direction. Yasuda had always been a calm guy that didn't flare up halfway through an explanation, although… if that incident with the possession was anything to go by, that calm demeanour drifted on the surface of pent-up things of nastier nature. Shiro seemed to have gained a few centimetres on him, but Yasuda was still taller, and he'd lost some of the extra kilos. He looked more like a grown man than a teenager.

"So you're gonna go to the university in Tokyo?" Amazing, how much two people had to catch up on after eight months. "I never could've guessed. And _teacher_…?"

"Yeah", Yasuda smiled into his noodles. "I would've said 'they'll need new ones after you wore out the old', but that doesn't really apply anymore. You've been gnawing Minata-chan's heels at the top of the scoreboard the whole semester. What happened? What are you going to do after school, with those grades?"

Shiro's eyes briefly lingered on the coal tars that bobbed and danced in the steam above the yakisoba yatai. He swallowed a mouthful of beef and said what he hadn't been allowed to say eight months ago:

"I'll study to become an exorcist."

"Exorcist?" his classmate repeated, looking at him like he'd done in the old days when Shiro had suggested some unusually outrageous plan to get into the girls' bathroom. "Did somebody finally hit you hard in the head?"

"Just a matter o' time, innit?" Kasumi replied cheerfully, hooking Shiro's umbrella into his shirt collar as she appeared out of nowhere, two paper bags of nikuman in her hand. "Been lookin' high an' low fo' ya, Bigmouth. Greetins by the way: name's Honda Kasumi", she said, flashing a smile at Yasuda. "Now, what've ya done te ye' baby-sitters?"

"Midori-chan wanted to throw darts at balloons over there", he said, pointing his chopsticks in the right direction. "You should probably bring some sort of shield."

"I'll tell her you said that!" she said, waving over her shoulder.

Shiro smiled into his paper cup and scraped together the remaining noodles.

"So that's what it's called. 'Exorcist'."

That was a strange voice for Yasuda… Shiro looked up from his cup, food dangling halfway out of his mouth, and saw an equally strange look on his friend's face.

"I know we joked about it, but… Shiro-san, you really shouldn't do this." He was dead serious; Shiro just had no idea what he was serious about. "Especially with those grades, man: you could get in anywhere! You could go to Todai!" His voice sank cautiously. "Look, if it's the girl, Honda-chan…" Yasuda tossed a quick glance in the direction Kasumi had gone. "It's not worth it, Shiro-san. You might think it is now, but let me remind you that when you've got a girl on your mind you're about as intelligent as a pickled cucumber. She's trouble, and everyone connected to her is trouble, and you've seen enough trouble for a-"

"What did ye say about my sister?"

Shiro turned his head to see Shizuku tower behind him, black eyes fixed on Yasuda. The latter looked like he was about to heave all the food he'd just eaten back into the paper box.

"This is Yasuda-san, my classmate. He said I shouldn't hang with you, though I really can't tell why", Shiro summed up, increasingly puzzled by the situation.

"I didn't mean it", he said in a voice that seemed to be squeezed through a straw. Something was very off with him: even Shizuku noticed, and he had never even met the guy.

"Did 'e have bad pork with the yakisoba, or…?"

"No, he's been like that since Kasumi-chan passed by, and then you came and made it even worse. Oi, Yasuda-san, would you just say what's wrong instead of looking like you're about to drop down dead?"

"I… I apologise!" Yasuda appeared to simultaneously rise from the bench and bow. Deep. _Really _deep. "I didn't mean to offend anyone, it won't ever happen again!"

Shiro and Shizuku exchanged glances: nope, neither of them was any wiser.

"Come on, Yasuda-san", Shiro tried, tapping his friend's bowed back with his chopsticks. "Why are you so afraid of Shizu-san?" Yasuda mumbled some unheard reply. "Speak up, or I'll shove these up your nose."

"Because he's yakuza", he said miserably, still bowed past a ninety degree angle.

Silence.

Shizuku was the first one who put two and two together; and when he did, he doubled over deeper than Yasuda, slapping his leg and roaring with laughter.

"Oeh, dontcha geddit, Shiro-san?! Dontcha geddit?! Kasu-ahahahahahhaaaa Kas- Kasu's tattoos…! 'e thought she was with the bloody _yakuza _fuehehehehehehahahaaaa! An' my wards – 'e thought- 'e thought I was some _mob thug_ hahaahhahahahaaa!"

Oh, he could see it. Through invisible prison bars he could see the mix-up, see how hilarious it was and see Yasuda burst into red like a signal flare; and feel the demons that waited for him to let his guard down, hovering disembodied between colourful flag posts and tin cans waiting to be knocked down with rubber balls. It was getting darker, and the storm clouds hung lower. Shiro hid his face in his hand, not to cover the laughter but to keep them from seeing how artificial it was.

Yasuda could relax, at least. He was still red as a flare, but he laughed with Shizuku and apologised again; this time for mistaking him for a yakuza thug. Kasumi, who'd come back one nikuman-bag poorer, had a good laugh at it, too.

"I'm 'is classmate", Shizuku explained with a wide grin. "In cram school, that is."

"You're still in cram school? That's how you boosted your grades like this?"

"No, what he means is that we're in exorcist cram school together. Midori and Sen-chan too."

Yasuda gave him a puzzled look.

"I thought 'exorcist' was some mob term for a hitman, but then it's…?"

"An exorcist's an exorcist: demon pest-control." …no, Yasuda wouldn't believe that. Shiro wouldn't have, either. "Remember that time you collapsed, right before Fuji-san started acting tough? It felt like falling asleep, right? Or like something was making you fall asleep? It felt like you were being swallowed up by your darkest thoughts and buried alive under your worst nightmares, and the only way to escape it was to give in and sink down into unconsciousness." Shiro paused, looking straight at Yasuda's surprised face. Yes, it had been exactly like that. "That's what it feels like when a demon possesses you", he said, not knowing what inflection to put on those words. "You didn't remember anything afterwards, because the human soul sleeps while the demon controls the body." …no, he didn't want to mention Mephisto's part in it. "I was the one who exorcised it from you."

Yasuda chewed air, like a goldfish. A very shocked goldfish with a characteristic nick in one of its front teeth.

"But… why didn't you tell me?! And Fu- He wouldn't have blown his grades if you'd told him what happened! _None of this _would've happened if you'd just told us right from the beginning! What were you- Just what the hell, Shiro?!"

Yeah, there were many things that wouldn't have happened if he'd acted differently. Sometimes you make the right choice, sometimes the wrong one. That's the thing with Choice: it's only afterwards, when faced with the consequences, that you know which was which.

"I should've told you, I know. I just didn't." Back then, because he had to be discrete about going to cram school. "I'm sorry." Now, because his friends in cram school would wonder why he had had to be discrete and lie about it earlier.

Sometimes, there is no right choice.

"Sorry…?" It would've been easier if his voice hadn't been so soft. It would've been easier to be shouted at, beaten up, cursed to hell and back… but there was just Yasuda's soft voice, and brown eyes staring across the table at a stranger they once knew. "Why don't you go tell Fuji-san that?" With that, he rose, and walked away.

As if on cue, the first crack of thunder reverberated in the sky.

* * *

The rain gushed down like a waterfall, the way it does when it has been waiting all day to make that perfect entrance. It was rain that sounded like a passing freight train when it hammered on signs, roofs and asphalt, and forced people to crowd under the stands where the tarpaulin extended to form a cover. The four of them half walked, half jogged through the grey downpour; Sen and Midori under an umbrella summoned by fox magic, Shizuku under a rice hat, and Kasumi… slipped her arm into Shiro's and sheltered under his school umbrella.

"Ye've been lacking ye' usual spunk teday", she said, trying to sound casual about it. "Anything bothering ya…?"

"He's shielding his heart from demons. But he isn't used to it yet."

Shiro stared at Sen. The little broomstick merely smiled her dead smile back at him.

"I dunno if I'm followin'", Kasumi said, skipping over a large puddle that Shiro was too distracted to notice. "I knew ye're workin' ta keep demons off yer back by mind-power, but-"

"Demons possess the darkness in the human heart", Sen explained, "and the human heart opens to strong emotion."

"_Except mine seems to be a round-the-clock service desk._"

"It takes a while to get used to", the Futotsuki continued, twirling Midori's long hair-tail between her fingers, "but if you want, you can come with us to our village over summer. We can teach you meditation techniques and how to focus better."

"That's a great offer," one he would've loved to take her up on, "but I will be working at the Academy over summer. Janitor jobs and such." The scholarship covered school fees all and well, but he needed the extra money for food and other expenses. "I would've loved to come, otherwise."

The conversation lulled to nothing but the splatter of feet on wet ground, and the rumbling of heavy rain and thunder. Nobody said aloud what they all knew: demons possess people with wicked hearts.

They were halted by a shout at the entrance gates of Mepphy Land. Turning around, they spotted… two dwarves running with a tent…?

"Hey! Hey, wait for me!" The voice was Ryuuji's, though. And the weird bulges under the rain poncho were his music instruments. "Sorry, I- haah haah I lost track of time… talking…" he panted, slightly flushed in the face but glowing with pride like a pregnant woman; pregnant with triplets at the very least. "They invited me to join their summer tour, starting next week! And we'll be playing one concert with _Yamamoto Hōzan_!"

The change of subject was welcome. The way back to shelter was spent talking about different things they would do or hoped to do over summer. Shiro didn't say it aloud… but he had hoped he would have at least one person congratulating him on his graduation.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Yatai** – mobile food stand

**Ryuji/Ryuuji** – various kanji can go into that, but _ryu_ retains the meaning "dragon". **Tattoos** – are closely associated with criminality in Japan, as I'm sure you know. It just recently occurred to me what Kasumi and Shizuku must look like to ordinary Japanese: one with tattoos and one with piercings all over his face. ^_^' Yasuda joked with Shiro in the first chapter that he would do fine in the yakuza, so I thought I'd take him up on that now that they briefly talked again. **Yamamoto H**ō**zan** – is something as curious as a Living National Treasure of Japan. He's an extremely talented player of shakuhachi (traditional flute) and a big name in traditional music.


	32. 84: Unpleasant surprises

**A/N: I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created. **

* * *

He was, he would admit, a bit nervous about Tamer exams; which was the worst exam to be nervous about. At least for the practical part, for which he was to summon a familiar and pitch it against another Tamer's familiar.

There are two kinds of summoning: the instinctive, and the contract bound. Instinctive summoning was what they had done their first Tamer class, when each had been asked to say whatever words came to mind. Contract bound summoning was done using a pre-estblished agreement that pledged a demon to serve as familiar in exchange for blood, hair, dreams - something personal that the exorcist gave up as payment. Instinctive summoning required no such tribute. It was a matter of raw mind-power, and performance relied entirely on the summoner's heart and character: as Futotsuki-sensei had put it that very day, a familiar summoned through instinctive summoning mirrored the summoner.

It had come as no surprise, but nonetheless… it was a hard blow when Shiro had discovered that no shahrokh would come if he tried to summon it like before.

"_I hope Futotsuki-sensei doesn't think it's strange that my familiar has changed_", he thought as he stepped into the circle of wards that had been painted into the grass. This was the only exam held outdoors, on a secluded baseball court that was part of the Academy.

"Esquire Fujimoto Shiro, are you set?" Futotsuki-sensei's rich voice carried with surprising strength, even if he wasn't using a megaphone.

"Set", he confirmed.

"Junior First class Tamer Yoshitaka Daisuke, are you set?"

"Yes", a small guy answered from the other side of the circle. "And good luck!"

Yoshitaka Daisuke…? Oh, right: the fidgety guy that had been part of the search team that went into Mephisto's labyrinth when Shiro's cram school key had been lo- had been stolen.

"Good luck!" Shiro returned, and steadied the tablet with paper on against his hip. In the field they'd carry pre-drawn summoning circles, but on exams they were tested so that they could draw their own ones in case of emergency.

"You may now begin the examination!"

"Child of Kadru, and daughter of eight kings…" Daisuke began.

"I call you forth to tell the just from the corrupted, to judge and exact judgement; to hunt the guilty down from the domes of the sky to the pits of the underworld", Shiro commanded, taking a firm hold of himself for what was to come.

First time he had summoned it, he had been forced to tear the paper almost immediately. He hadn't expected his control to falter; but he hadn't expected that familiar, either, and so had been caught completely off guard. Still, he had summoned it again… and again… until he had become cold enough to hear that unholy bay without surrendering to the paralysing fear that came with it.

"Your opponent is that naga." His voice rung hollow and slightly shaky in the arena, where all living sound had fallen silent before the smell of burnt brimstone. "Defeat it, but don't kill it."

Eyes the colour of boiling blood deigned him a glare over the demon's massive shoulder blade, and a snort that brought a gush of sparks from its nostrils. It detested him, he'd known that right from the start. He wasn't worthy to command such a creature.

"_But command I will._" Shiro met its eyes firmly, unwaveringly… "_I've stared down the King of Time, you mutt._" …and when it knew he wasn't going to falter, it turned its large head towards the hissing naga and stalked slowly closer, each step leaving behind the singed mark of a huge paw in the grass.

All cultures knew of them, in one form or another; all cultures feared them, for the work they carried out.

"_You didn't come to be commanded by me_", he thought grimly, watching the red ears streak backwards against the white, bristling fur as the naga reared its head up to strike his familiar. "_You came to exact judgement._" The hound skipped aside, light as a feather despite its size, and bit straight through the scale panzer behind the snake's head. "_On me._"

On the soul of a sinner. They had been called many things, but their purpose and task was the same. They were the finest hunting dogs in this world and all others, heralds of death that never slowed until they had chased their corrupted prey into the ground; so the coon annun had earned the name most people knew them by.

Hellhounds.

* * *

The practical Tamer exam was not a matter of whose familiar won and whose lost, but of what kind of familiars the students could summon, and how well they made use of their abilities. Nagas were excellent demons for offensive operations: fast, and venomous. Not very mobile, though. And not very good at endurance.

"Make it move around", he murmured, sure that his familiar would hear him but not Daisuke. "Wear it out."

The coon annun could run from the dawn of creation to judgement day, mythology had it. Whether that was true or not, they could run swift and far without tiring, and they had the strength to deal with any obstacle standing between them and their prey. The bite of a coon annun is venomous, though Shiro had little knowledge if that venom had the same effect on other demons as it had on humans.

The hellhound wasn't doing too well against the snake. Daisuke had made it curl up to minimize the target, and rather than biting it was slamming its tail at the attacker, keeping its bleeding head safe from further injury. The coon annun was too fast to get hit, but it wasn't making the naga any more tired either. Stalemate.

Shiro chewed the tip of his tongue, thinking. Stalemate didn't look good on protocol. Tamers were awarded for creativity and strategy in using their familiars, and turning the tables on a situation like this was precisely the kind of thing that gave extra points. The coon annun did have a howl that would make any living thing, human or demon, freeze in terror and be for a moment left open for assault; but he hadn't expected to face a familiar that couldn't bloody _hear_…

He knew one thing that he _could _do…

"_There is an important distinction to be made between _could _and _should." Mephisto was right in that statement, strategist as he was… and strategy was what the situation called for. Not from him, but from his familiar. "_No winning without gambling, no gambling without risk._" Shiro re-opened the cut in his hand for a second summon. "_And coon annun hunt in packs._"

Often, you would hear Arias say they had the most dangerous position in a team of exorcists; directly targeted by demons, and having to remain calm and remember hundreds of memorized chants flawlessly under stress fighter pilots didn't even come close to. The Arias that also held Meisters as Tamers huffed at such words. Drawing a correct circle to summon a demon required as much memorizing as chanting did, but summoning…

Summoning required you to create your own miniature gate to Gehenna through blood and will, and drag a demon through it. A Tamer used his own mind and body to bridge across two dimensions, and subdue a spirit that would rip his throat out if given half a chance: that was no fucking slacker job. The strain from summoning two strong demons made Shiro's head throb painfully. He knew he could do it, he'd done it a couple of times while he practiced on his own… but he had never kept two demons bound to himself for long.

The naga was having a hard time of it, unsuccessfully trying to keep the blurry white-and-red cannonballs at bay. The coon annun moved like two bodies sharing one mind, biting and pestering the poor creature until it ignored Daisuke's commands and mindlessly tossed itself at them in an attempt to fend for itself.

"Exam is over!" Futotsuki-sensei declared from the sidelines. "Tear your summoning circles!" All three summons disappeared in clouds of smoke, and Shiro breathed a sigh of relief. "You did well, both of you. You are free to go, and please see the nurse if you feel ill or fatigued from this exam."

Shiro allowed himself a glance at Futotsuki-sensei, and at the other teachers assembled. If they were surprised by his change of familiar, they made a good job of hiding it.

* * *

He probably passed Tamer. There was still the theoretical exam of drawing wards and summoning circles, but Shiro wasn't worried about that. It may have been that large parts of his brain had been empty and unused before, but once he'd started filling it with information he had been surprised to discover how much he could fit in there. Chants, seals, potion recipes, properties of the different demon species… He had known he was smart – fairly smart, at least – but he'd had no idea how smart he was until he'd made an effort to learn things. Until there had been things that were interesting to learn.

…speaking of smart.

Shiro had taken the long way back to the dorm area from the baseball court, to enjoy the weather, and spotted another smart dick marching straight-backed for the dorms. All alone. With all other kids on lunch break.

"Oi, Kita." If he wanted that honorific attached back to his name, he had better explain to Shiro why there had been a baryon in his sword on Knight exam. "I've been looking for you." Shiro drew a last breath on his cigarette before tossing it on the walkway and stomping it out as he went.

"And why is that?" Didn't betray a thing, the little rat. He waited, arms crossed in the shadow of one of the Academy's buildings, and looked both bored and annoyed at having to deal with this nuisance of a classmate.

"I just wanted to say thank you, for being so kind and wishing me luck on Knight exam." Now that he came into the shadow too, he could open his eyes properly. Was that a tiny hint of tension in Kita's thin shoulders…? "And tell you to quit fucking around with my business. Fine if you don't like me – I don't give a rat's ass about you, either – but I'm not childish enough to screw up somebody's exam for that."

A superior sneer crept up on Kita's lips. He couldn't have been more than a few centimetres taller than Shiro, but hell was he making those centimeters count right now.

"You flatter yourself too much, Fujimoto", he snorted amusedly. "Why would I care about your exam results?"

"I know no one who would care more", Shiro returned with silken sweetness. "It's gotta sting pretty bad to have your fancy name beaten by a nobody without exorcist connections, I'm guessing? Bad enough to put a baryon in my sword for the examination."

People get a certain look when something dawns on them. It's built into the expression, really: the bright light of a rising sun becomes for a moment physically visible in their eyes. And that was the spark that flickered in Kita's.

"What?" It irked Shiro that Kita seemed to have realised something that had completely passed him by. Irked him, and made the seed of suspicion sprout in his mind.

But the lanky Yaonaru merely reverted to his usual dickish attitude, and dismissed him with a chuckle not of the friendly kind.

"Nothing. You know nothing", he said, turning on his heel to leave.

That, was not happening.

In a split second Shiro had him by his shirt collar and shoved his back against the wall, hard enough for Kita to bump his head on the stone and grimace in pain.

"I'll repeat myself: I don't give a rat's ass about you, or about how many teeth you have to sneer at me with", he said with steel-barbed softness. "I'm gonna ask nicely first, and then it's up to you whether I have to ask again. If you weren't trying to screw my exam because of competition, why did you do it?"

Kita wasn't a fighter, that he'd known from the beginning. But he wasn't meek. He was better than others; that he'd been taught since he learnt to walk, probably, and that solid conviction forbade him to let a lowlife like Shiro dent his pride.

"Let go of me, you filth", he hissed.

"_It's a bad move to think I won't go through with my threats._" He slowly contracted the muscles in his arms, adjusting them to Kita's weight, and pushed the wide-eyed teenager up the wall until his feet dangled a good decimeter above ground. "How about we try again? Why did you sabotage my exam if it wasn't to disable competition?"

"You may be an imbecile, but I'm not", he snorted, defiant despite the trembling in the hands that clung to Shiro's arms for support. "I was shown the list of admissions to cram school before classes began last year. There was no Fujimoto Shiro on it. You were enrolled afterwards, handpicked by Sir Pheles. Why do you think he did that?"

"_I know why he did that, better than you do_", he thought, but let none of it show on his face.

"Oh, what a good pawn you are; not a brain cell to think with in that thick head", Kita derided, trying to pry Shiro's hands off his shirt. Shiro didn't let him. Kita knew far more than he had expected, and he wasn't going to let him off the hook before he found out just how much. "At least _try_ to think, Shiro. Since Sir Pheles established his presence in Japan, sixty eight percent of the nation's artefacts and demonic relics have been relocated to Deep Keep: a high-security vault that can only be accessed through the use of magical keys, which are controlled by Sir Pheles. Seventy two percent of all exorcists in Japan operate under orders from the Order of the True Cross, whose Japanese branch is under the command of Sir Pheles." Kita made another attempt to pry off Shiro's hand, to no avail. "Japan is being disarmed and dismantled bit by bit, all power to combat demons centred to a demon that can deprive us of our weapon's arsenal with a snap of his fingers."

"_The Yaonaru won't store their artefact in Deep Keep, not 'cause it's guarded by the Todos but because Mephisto…_" Pieces fell in place, beautifully so. "_He's tying all power to himself, and Kita thinks that's why I-_"

"He gathers both artefacts and exorcists", his captive continued, somehow maintaining his superior sneer even if he was the one at a disadvantage. "And he handpicked you to become an exorcist. I don't know why, and apparently neither do you." Oh, Shiro knew. And while Kita was wrong about why Mephisto had enrolled him in cram school, the nosy little brat had made some good points. "I couldn't care less about you and your grades, but you might want to take a step back and think – if that's possible – of why Sir Pheles is so eager to add you to his collection." The haughty look grew haughtier. "Because trust me, it's not because you are his 'friend'."

There were a billion questions, milling around on Shiro's tongue like ants. A billion questions Kita wouldn't answer – many of which he _couldn't _answer, simply because all of them concerned the most secretive player on the game board.

And when you don't know what to ask… make people talk instead.

"That's the worst crap I've heard." Playing dumb with someone who already despised you for being dumb wasn't the most flattering thing one could do, but sometimes the results were well worth the humiliation. "And you expect me to believe that?"

Kita's face displayed an infuriating blend of annoyance, arrogance, resignation, and pity for the hopelessly stupid.

"The Yaonarus have been exorcists for as long as anyone can remember, with more knowledge of exorcism than any other family. We served the Tokugawa shoguns during the Edo period; we served Tokugawa Iesada when Sir Pheles came to Japan. He came as an emissary from the Order, offering to tie bonds with native exorcism traditions by building a school where the best from both practices would be taught." Kita made an effort to find footing on the wall behind, to alleviate his faltering grip on Shiro's hands. "And he wanted to build it where Assiah and Gehenna tangent", he spat. "That's where we are: at the thinnest nexus of the dimensional barrier. Do you think he chose this location on a whim? Do you think he came to Japan on a whim? That he enrolled you in cram school on a whim?" A cynical snicker breathed air against Shiro's whitened knuckles. "If so, you truly are an imbecile."

…and here he'd thought Kita was just a snotty shithead. The guy _knew _stuff. Stuff that justified every animosity he held against Mephisto – and against Shiro, who certainly must've looked like an ignorant pawn in the demon's game.

"…how can this place be the thinnest nexus? Why?"

"Why don't you ask your 'friend'?" Kita retorted.

Shiro wasn't pissed anymore. It was hard to say what he was; he had been given too much to ponder to bother being angry with Kita. Slowly, he let the flustered teenager down.

"You could have told me this before." Pff, indeed: too much to ponder to think before he spoke. Kita wouldn't have told someone who was in alliance with Mephisto; someone who was _duped_ by Mephisto, now that was a different matter. "_And my greatest talent seems to be looking stupid…_"

"You should consider your priorities, Fujimoto", he said curtly, straightening his collar and paying absolutely no mind to Shiro's statement. "Perhaps it would be for the best if you resigned from exorcist education?"

Without another word, without another glance, the Yaounaru turned on his heel and walked off, leaving Shiro with renewed doubts.

Mephisto liked humans, and he wanted Assiah safe – but what the hell was he planning to do, with all those artefacts buried under the thinnest part of the dimensional barrier…?

* * *

**A/N:**

**Coon annun** – meh, my computer doesn't do Welsh. ^_^' The proper name is Cŵn Annwn, but that circumflex wouldn't sit atop a w, so I'll be transcribing it "as it sounds" for my own convenience. The coon annun are the Welsh version of the often heard-of hellhounds, and their specific variation of the legend is a big white hound with red ears. It's supernaturally strong and fast, to hunt down wretched souls for punishment, and an omen of death with bite that kills. There's plenty of similar myths in other places, so I took the liberty of mixing in a few of their traits for a more solid picture: the red eyes, the smell of burning brimstone, the burn marks from its paws, etc.

**Kadru **– is in Hinduism the mother of snakes. There's mention of a couple of snake kings there that also feature in the Japanese legends of eight great snake kings.

**Dimensional barrier?** - it's only been used in the anime; the weakest point in the barrier, where Gehenna and Assiah almost touch. There was no way Mephisto didn't build his Academy there on purpose. =/ He bends time and space dimensions constantly; I'm sure he could smell that spot like a bloodhound smells game.

**Timeline recap **– I've pretended that Mephisto arrived in Japan 1854 (see ch 29). That was the year Japan agreed to open up ports for foreign ships. This marked the start of international interaction with Japan after its many years of self-isolation, and also led to the downfall of the shogunate in 1868.


	33. 85: Mind-blowing payback

**A/N:**

**For **_**Zeitdieb: **_**some shameless flirting with **_**Puppeteer**_**. ;3**

**THE RATING FOR THIS CHAPTER IS MATURE,**** ladies and gentlemen and everyone in between. I hope you take note of that, or you might end up reading something you don't want to read. It's perfectly possible to skip this chapter and still follow the story. =)**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

"_Where is he?_"

Shiro knew Faust Mansion was large, and it never looked the same… but as he passed stranger and stranger rooms, he was starting to think it might even _grow _additional spaces, too. He didn't remember a room full of grandfather clocks, though he would admit someone who rules time could have something like that: but how did you tell time from clock faces that were numbered up to 25? And a replica of the Sistine Chapel, what use did a demon have for that…?

Shiro did stop to look at that last one, though. They hadn't had the time to see the Sistine Chapel on their sojourn to Rome, but it sure was…

"_Crumbling_", he thought as his eyes roamed the walls with their fractured plaster and fading colours. "_No matter how great mankind's achievements, it's all-_" How had Mephisto put it…? "_Frail, fluttering instants in time._"

Near the centre of the ceiling was a painting he recognised, elevated into his awareness on the pedestal of fame: _the Creation of Adam_. Shiro knew nothing of art per se – if anything, he found it surprising how very different humans looked in Western art compared to Japanese tradition – but even he had to admit that that painting had "something". Something in that short, short distance between God's finger and Adam's; something that was invisible, intangible, yet held the mystery of life itself. The divine spark.

"The one you couldn't return to a dead body", he murmured to the hushing arches, gaze lingering on the two hands that had reached out for hundreds of years without ever touching.

Hundreds of years… Hundreds of years ago the laboratory in Wawel Castle's tower had been built, to house the experiments Mephisto had conducted in his attempts to bridge that narrow gap between two fingers. That narrow gap, so simple yet so far beyond the grasp of a human mind; all of life, all of creation, all that unimaginable _power_,compressed and crackling in those few centimetres of nothingness…

"_…and jilt the Devil that would do the work of God._" It was probably a good thing that Mephisto hadn't succeeded. "_You've got enough toys as it is_", he concluded, lowering his eyes and thoughts from the ceiling. "_Just where are you, you old goat…?_"

Shiro's pace grew more and more impatient. He should be able to dowse for Mephisto's presence; but, like the rooms of the mansion, it seemed to constantly change location. Really, he could understand Belial's frustration. Working in a place like this must be-

The moment he saw it, he knew it was the right way. The corridor dug straight into the wall, and there was nothing in it save two doors at the far end. Shiro had to look at it twice before concluding it was some sort of spatial trick of Mephisto's: the pink-and-cream striped walls ran parallel with each other, but the corridor between them was impossibly narrow for those doors to stand side by side. Or gateways, rather: there were no doors in the arched frames, only darkness so deep it seemed to have mass and texture and-

"_Life_", he thought as he approached them. There were many strange and otherworldly things in Faust Mansion, but these…

The left arch was assembled in sections that hid their joints in fine carving; a grand, ivory masterpiece of workmanship. The right one was grizzled, from pale white to the dark blue of storm clouds, but looked the same as the other apart from that.

They were just the kind of fancy things Mephisto would own – and far too solemn to be part of his collections.

"_As is the Sistine Chapel_", Shiro concluded with a shrug, and strode ahead through the right gate.

"The library?" How disappointing. "I must've walked a stretch halfway through True Cross Town and more, and I find you in the library."

"The _great_ library", corrected a nit-picky voice from a heavy, deep red armchair by the unlit hearth. "The one where books can be enjoyed without disturbance from ill-mannered apes."

True, Mephisto kept his manga and his bound books separate; and the great library… was the kind of library you own if you've been collecting works since there were written works to collect. The dry smell of papyrus, paper and vellum rested on shelves that expanded in semi-circles out from the carved hearth, like ripples on water. From floor to ceiling they stretched, as if they had kept growing as trees even after the wood was hewn; a forest of curved pillars, branching at the top into a canopy of arches that supported the ceiling. If Mephisto ever auctioned out that collection, he could probably increase his fortune threefold.

Shiro crossed his arms and rested them on the back of the velvet armchair, smirking down at the demon that occupied it.

"Still mad that I played you~?"

"Not at all."

"Of course not", he grinned. "What's the occasion? I know you don't like that suit."

Mephisto never wore formal clothes in his own home, let alone that black suit he'd been forced to put on after he lost their bet.

"You tell me", he replied curtly, causing Shiro to knit his brow in confusion.

"Just so you know, I don't follow one bit."

"You came 'halfway through True Cross Town and more', you said." Mephisto closed the book with a sonorous thud, but made no move to meet Shiro's eyes. "I doubt you made that effort to ask about my attire."

"_Oooh, the princess is in a foul mood today~_" Which was both entertaining and troublesome. "I got a few words out of Kita-san about that artefact that's causing his family so much trouble. Seems your academy is built atop some sort of dimensional hotspot. I'm assuming you're aware of that…?"

"Of course I am."

…

…and that, apparently, was the extent of what he intended to say on the subject.

"Not at all mad that I played you, hm?" he teased, twirling Mephisto's hair curl around his finger and tugging it lightly. "I thought it was just pig-headed rivalry when Kita-san tried to make me flunk Knight exam, but I don't think that's all there is to it. He's after me because of my connection to you; not to the title and influence you've got, but to _you_. And there's got to be a reason he doesn't want you to have that artefact." A reason why Mephisto was gathering so many artefacts in Deep Keep.

The curl slipped his grip when the demon unfolded himself out of the chair like some slim, black lily rapidly springing into bloom.

"I am aware of the Yaonarus' resent, what they shelter, and why." He didn't honour him with a single glance; just laid the book down on the marquetry table by the heavy divan, and summoned an ornate carafe to pour him a glass of white wine. "Neither is anything you need concern yourself with."

Being rude is easy; anyone can do that. But to be that flippantly condescending was a finer nuance of rude, and fine nuances require skill. Mephisto's whole posture radiated superiority, right in his face, and made Shiro itch to take up the fight and bite back. However, that wasn't going to get him anywhere. You have to stroke the dog along the grain: the piqued princess would keep up his diva attitude until sufficient amends were made to appease his pride. Shiro rounded the armchair with a sigh and approached; still thoroughly, expertly ignored.

"I don't suppose a 'sorry' s'gonna cut it…?"

"Word is repaid with word, action with action", he declaimed, sipping his wine and not even _looking _at him.

…and against better knowledge, Shiro's health-hazardous urge to push buttons won out in the end.

"You sure you want that, knowing where 'action' got you last time~?" his soft voice snaked into the demon's pointed ear as he embraced him from behind and let his hands trail up the lean chest.

"A bit of a one-trick-pony, are you?"

Ah. King of Time, and of space: Mephisto no longer held any wine glass, and no longer had his back to him; he faced him eye to eye, and held his wrists in a secure grip.

"What's this? Does my proximity make you _edgy_… Sammy~?" Crap. He wasn't going to get the truth about the Yaonaru out of him, ever. Shiro could practically _see _the irked-o-meter rise, and see his chances to get on Mephisto's good side diminish proportionally. Some temptations just can't be resisted.

"Play coy all you like, little lion", he dismissed him. "Do you honestly expect me – _me_ – to fall for the same ploy twice?"

No, of course not. Mephisto was one who craved the sensational, unimpressed by mediocre performance and mundane repetition. And to beat his expectations and catch that finicky demon off guard, one had to…

...do the last thing he would expect.

Shiro rose up on the balls of his feet and planted a quick kiss on his lips.

Oh yes, the last thing he would expect: Shiro grinned inwardly as the air of conceited diva dropped in favour of undiluted astonishment.

"If you think that fumbling attempt at a kiss is valid payment, you're sorely mistaken", he informed, quickly gathering himself up behind an uninterested façade. "And Honda-kun's sister might want to fish for a better catch."

"That's some really poor acting skills, you know", Shiro returned with a _very _content smirk: how often did you get to enjoy _Mephisto_ floundering for lines…?

"And a really poor kiss that will get you nowhere."

"You sure about that…?"

Demons' tongues aren't made of silver. They aren't forked, and they have no tang of sulphur and ash. But once you develop a taste for it… White wine, sweetened by candy; a lingering touch of strong tea on sharp fangs… a thrill of danger satin soft.

Once you develop a taste for it, nothing can compare.

_like a moth unto flame_

The wristlock broke, as did the kiss...

_little by little, he will burn you to ashes_

And he wouldn't care. Aeons passed when Mephisto took off his glasses, aeons that quivered in the hungry centimetres of air between their lips; a few centimetres of nothingness, crackling with forces beyond the grasp of a human mind…

_Is it worth it?_

Mephisto lingered on his tongue; spicy, sweet, _intoxicating_… Is it worth being burnt to cinders, to taste a spark of divine pleasure?

Silence left with the clink of his glasses against the table, and hunger took its place. Shiro dug his fingers into Mephisto's hair, pressed his lips against his. Worth it, worth that and much more – worth every pinprick of greedy claws that dug into his skin through the shirt.

He didn't know what he was doing. Instinct doesn't explain; it just acts, no questions asked. No consequences considered. No words needed, for the body knows what it wants.

The plush divan caught their fall, and for long moments Shiro merely soaked up the sight of his prey. Prey; because there and then, he knew what lions felt when the warm, panting body of a wild beast lay pinned down beneath and _begged_ to be eaten.

"I'm feeling a bit more inclined to tell you about the Yaonaru…" Shiro barely registered words; only a vicious desire to bury his teeth in pale white skin and tear that lilting voice into a gasp. "But just a bit", Mephisto purred, slowly running sinewy hands up the thighs that straddled his slim hips, making the hard bulge in Shiro's trousers ache to further persuade that-

"_-demon._" Somewhere in his hazy, horny mess of a brain, Reason managed to shout one word through the fog: demon. "What… have you done to me…?" he panted. As if knowing would help.

"Done~?" _God_, that voice; like a hot, wet tongue curling tantalizing promises around the head of his cock. "What grows in the human heart is planted by humans", Mephisto breathed raggedly, pushing himself up on his hands and slipping out of the suit jacket, like a snake shedding skin. "And nurtured by demons", he murmured a hairsbreadth from his lips; eyes of molten poison and breath of sweet wine, a hairsbreadth away, teasing, beckoning, waiting-

t_he flame burns… and the moth flies to it willingly_

It was Shiro who leaned into the kiss, nurtured by silver-tongued words and intoxicating thrills that smouldered between his legs. He was a bundle of sensation without thought: heat, moisture, skin… and lust. Searing, throbbing lust, sweeter than sin, burning through flesh and reason; hands stumbled over silver buttons, forced open the waistcoat, ripped the tie from the demon's neck-

"And when the fruit is ripe…" Mephisto's hands traced the curve of his back, his firm buttocks; pulled him closer, possessively, forcing a shaky breath from Shiro's lips when his hard arousal pressed against another. "…we devour it~"

A wild beast… pinned down and begging to be eaten…

_Is it worth it, if the fox one day bites the rabbit?_

Predators' fangs left a hungry trail of hickeys on his throat.

"_Oh, it's worth it…_"

Shiro bit his lip around a moan as his belt-buckle emptied with a clink and gave clawed fingers access to his throbbing cock.

"_Nnnh worth it…_"

He rocked his hips into the lovely motions of Mephisto's hand, clutched at bony shoulders and purple hair – oh yes, he was ripe… but not reaped.

Shiro wrenched him back down into the soft divan, breath hissing through a hungry leer.

"_Yes..._"

Yes, Mephisto looked good in that suit – even better without it. But when his chest heaved air past the fangs in the wicked grin like that…

"_Oh yes…_"

…when hellfire set absinthian eyes aflame with unbridled lust…

"_And a handsome devil you are._"

…then he looked like sin incarnate. The thinner his patience stretched, the more of the demon that showed behind the façade he presented to the human world…

"_He could tear me to pieces._" An intense rush of heat flared through his groin. "_Oh I'm a sick fuck…_" And his grin stretched into wickedness. "I think you forgot one step there", he spoke softly, struggling to control his breath as he lowered his face towards his prey. "You have to pick the fruit before you can devour it." The words struck a vicious spark in the green eyes; a challenge, always appreciated a challenge. "_Don't we both?_" His own eyes looked the same, he was sure, as he ran one finger up the demon's throat and out to the beard that tipped his chin. "Let's see you do that first, your highness", he smiled, tugging the goatee playfully and leaving a feather-light kiss on the smirking lips.

"The King of Beasts will contest the King of Time, is that it…? Well well~"

The pressure against the warm chest under Shiro's hand lessened, the fringes that framed Mephisto's face rose up to tickle his forehead, and something laid itself over his back… Without his senses registering any movement, they had suddenly switched position; and Shiro lay pinned on the sheets in the four-poster bed.

"I can imagine that's a rather handy trick?" Shiro grinned up at him.

"Oh yes: as is this."

The next thing he knew, his arms were stretched above his head. He tried to lower them, only to discover that his wrists had been tied to the iron lacework of the headboard with his belt. A tingling thrill travelled down his spine and curled itself to rest in his gut: looking up at that devilish grin and those half-lidded eyes, it was evident who was predator and who was prey.

"What, you don't trust me~?" he smirked, tugging at his bonds.

"I wouldn't try my hand at taming a lion unless I'd made sure it was securely chained, Shiro-pon~" Shiro's shirt buttons came undone, one by one at agonizingly slow pace.

"You don't want a tame lion", he breathed through a smirk, relishing the feeling of kisses and nibbles and the soft tickle of Mephisto's beard trailing down his abdomen. "That'd be n-nnh~ that'd be no fun." That tongue on the ridge of muscle in his groin; shit, it felt- where had his underwear g-? "_Now _that's _a handy trick._"

"I beg to differ", he purred, looking extremely pleased with himself. "Taming a beast can be very… enjoyable~"

Mephisto curled his fingers around his hard cock and licked it slowly from base to head, coating it in saliva. The tip of his tongue dipped into the slit; swirled, prodded… He began working his fingers at the base – small motions, _frustrating _motions – while his tongue swept over the head, occasionally making Shiro's breath hitch by flicking over the string of skin that connected head to shaft.

"_Taking his merry time, that bastard._" So agonizingly slowly… Shiro's eyes shut as a wave of pleasure pushed a moan up his throat; and immediately opened again. Mephisto had stopped, pausing – _pausing? _– to tuck his long fringes behind his ears.

A salacious grin, the kind that meant no good, touched the demon's lips before he-

"N-nnh~" Shiro's hips bucked, or tried to, as Mephisto slid the head of his cock into his mouth. Only the head; one clawed hand on his hip made sure of that. "_That shitface…!_" It _was _payback. That grin had told him all he needed to know: Mephisto would tease him and taunt him as long as he pleased, until the lion was tamed to his liking. "_Nnh_ _but that's one hell of a silver tongue he's got..._"

It was a tongue that melted moans from his lips, a steady dripping of oil onto a fire that burnt hotter with each skilful stroke. The demon slowly coaxed him harder, to the point it was unbearable; slowly teased the burning need until building pleasure became unreleased pain. Shiro clenched his teeth around the gasps and moans, calling upon every ounce of self-control not to give Mephisto the pleasure of hearing him beg. He would not give in, would _not _give in, no matter how much he wanted that asshole to-

"Just suck it, you bastard", he panted, trembling with need under the thin film of sweat that coated his heaving chest.

Opposite effect. Of course.

"Tsk tsk, such language, Shiro."

Language? _Now_?

"Pardon me, your highness", he returned with a pleasant smile, "but I don't think I'm the one with the dirty mouth here." He didn't have a string of pre-cum and saliva dangling from his, at least. But damn, what a turn-on that was… "_You did right in tying me up._" Had his hands been free, there would have been no pausing or teasing.

"Well well; I shall have to do my best not to dirty it further, then", he purred, licking the semen from his lip with a smile that sent burning jolts of lust through Shiro's cock.

…a tease. A sadistic tease of monstrous proportions, with all the technique of an Inquisition torturer.

"Haah ha-aahnn~" Shiro writhed on the sheets, the muffled creaking of leather groaning around his wrists. It felt incredible; incredible, and frustrating. Flaming lust throbbed in his gut, ate his thoughts, eroded his defiance: he needed the friction, needed those soft lips closed tightly around his cock… "_I hate you, I _hate _you_, _you pointy-eared fucking pest - but it's so _good_…!_" …but Mephisto kept bobbing his head up and down without touching him, just letting his warm breath enclose him with unfulfilled promises of hot, wet pleasure. His abdominal muscles clenched and unclenched around needy, ragged breaths, his fingers curled around the iron swirls that held him prisoner. "Hnnnh~ just… do it properly, you-haah~"

"And what's the word…?" he smirked sweetly, crawling up along his body like a deadly, slender feline toying with cornered prey.

He wouldn't give in, wouldn't beg, wouldn't-

"Please", he panted. Screw pride, screw dignity: all he wanted was to end the torture and come. "Give it to me, _please_."

"Good boy~" Absinthe eyes caressed his features approvingly, and the victorious smirk grew a few millimetres wider.

*poof*

The belt around his wrists disappeared. Shiro propped himself up on his lower arms. Mephisto's tongue was already making its way down his chest, fast, eager, and-

"Nnnh…" Shiro's fingers buried in the demon's hair, and his eyes closed in bliss as the heat of Mephisto's mouth finally swallowed- "Hah… haah…" His lips slid down his shaft slowly, taking in his whole length. "Nnh Mephis-nhaaah~" Shiro's body arched when the demon began to move up and down under his hand – dear god, he'd never even _imagined_…! "Haah haah nnnh _yes_…!" It was heaven; the wrong kind of heaven, probably, but one he wasn't going to trade for anything. Muscles contracted around him deep in the demon's throat, massaged him every time the head of his cock pushed into the hot, wet tightness, and drove him delirious with pleasure. "More! I-nnh Meh-aah Mephisto…!" He gasped at the feeling of sharp teeth ghosting over skin, seething jolts setting fire to that familiar tension of thrill in his gut. _This _was a proper blowjob! His fingers clenched in purple hair, body rushing towards a long-awaited orgasm that built, built- "Kee-haah keep going! Just a little more, I-nnh _more_!" Mephisto's motions came more erratically, fingers playing gently with Shiro's balls. His head fell backwards, eyes shut, breath fluttering at the top of his lungs-

Shiro's eyes snapped open, and for one befuddled moment he had no idea of anything. Then he realised he was in his bed, and it was still dark, and-

"_What the _hell_ did I just dream…?_" His eyelids grated like sandpaper against his eyes when he rubbed at them. "_I'm throwing the rest of those onigiri away. Right now._" After a quick visit to the bathroom, that was: the dream had left him with a pressing – _throbbing_ – matter to take care o-

"Sweet dreams~?"

Shiro sat bolt upright in his bed, hitting his forehead on the empty bunk above and-

"Must be terribly annoying, to get disrupted just when things were getting good", chimed the all-too-familiar voice, coming from a white blob atop the bookshelf. "Alas, a gentleman like myself couldn't bear to leave such desperate pleas unanswered: too cruel on my noble heart." No, this wasn't happening. "I wouldn't mind taking a lion to bed." Shiro's body couldn't decide whether it was hot or cold, much like his mind couldn't decide if he should kill Mephisto or himself or both. "Especially not when the lion's voice is so sweet on one's ears~" No, god, _no…! _"You make my name sound so _dirty_, Shiro~"

Shiro grabbed the first solid object within reach.

* * *

What later became known as the White Night fed on the many question marks surrounding its origin, and came to be explained as everything from a poltergeist attack to an indication that study stress had finally cracked Fujimoto Shiro's mind. The only thing the corridor's inhabitants could say for sure was that said student had sprinted down the hall like a rabid dog in nothing but his bed sheet, hurling everything he could get his hands on into walls, and roaring something about a "shit-eating, cunt-faced, perverted fucking incubus".

Some students, although they admitted they were still half-asleep and rather disoriented when it happened, said they had heard unhinged laughter in the corridor besides Fujimoto's profanities, and that they thought this to have been some sort of ghost. Others speculated if maybe the ghost had been the one to toss things around in the first place, since no human could possibly have thrown the vending machine halfway across the hall like that. In all, several versions of White Night lived on in the Academy's urban legends for many years to come, although the true nature of it never came to light.

…because the ones who learnt the truth were made to swear under oath never to tell a soul about it.

* * *

**A/N:** **I'm a vile tease, please don't hurt me…! TTwTT'**

**Shiro had it coming… **And no, I couldn't make it a "real" event. My basic reasoning is as follows: Mephisto won't let anyone get in the way of his plans, and that does not exclude himself. I imagine he's beckoned by all manner of temptations that he would love to give in to, but if they pose a risk to his long-term goals he will go against his own nature and abstain from them. His main aim isn't getting Shiro in bed (not that he would mind that) but to groom him for more important purposes.

**…I know I've got very competent smut writers** sitting in front of the computer screen right now. ^_^' I tip my hat to you and the work you do. I found this genre a bit of an uphill run, but feedback tells me it wasn't as bad as it looked on my screen. Thank you guys, it means a lot to me. ^u^

**Hermes**, that I put as one of Samael's earlier aliases in ch 73, also fills a function as "dream master": namely, he directs dreams from the underworld into the minds of sleeping people. =P I thought it would fit somebody who is King of Time and Space, since he's evidently capable of transferring minds across dimensions: maybe he'd be able to transfer other things to your mind, such as dreams/illusions?

**I sneaked in a little something** from classical literature that I'd be surprised if anyone beside _A_ notices, but if anyone does... then good for you. ;)


	34. 86: Explanations

**A/N: I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created. **

* * *

"_Wonder if this is part of payback, too, or if the bastard just got lucky…_"

Because explaining to his two best friends why he had thrown chairs after their principal-

Well, first of all, to explain why their principal had been in his dorm room at night was-

And explaining this while he tried to hide the painful erection pressing against his boxers-

Shit, explaining why he even _had_ a hard-on in the first place-

"I'm not sure how to explain this." Good start. Shizuku and Ryuuji, who had hauled him into their room when he had stomped back to his own, patiently awaited the rest. "But I can say that it's not what it looks like." Best fucking explanation he'd ever pulled. Great job.

"Really? 'cause ta me it looks like ye chased ye' demon friend outta yer room at night, wearing nothin' but ye' bed sheet." And Shizuku himself looked like he was very sceptical to the 'not what it looks like' part.

"I _have _underwear under it", Shiro huffed, trying to adjust the sheet around his waist: said underwear was a bit of a tight fit at the moment. "He was in there 'cause he was paying me back for a prank I pulled on him, that's all."

There was still a reasonable amount of doubt and questions on Shizuku's features, which wasn't unexpected since the whole situation did look rather… suggestive.

"Did he get back at you…?" Ryuuji asked from his seat on his bunk.

"What do you think? I threw a fucking vending machine after him." And would have a tremendously sore arm tomorrow, if the thick pain in his shoulder was any indication. Thank god Saburota was away on mission, otherwise- God? God had nothing to do with that: a certain smug demon had.

"Kinda has me curious", Shizuku resumed, looking him up and down and scratching his chin. "What does one hav'ta do te you ta make ye so pissed ye can lift a vending machine?"

There was a moment of silence, in which Shiro failed to come up with a credible and less embarrassing substitute for what Mephisto had actually done.

"You don't want to know." This statement was followed by another silence that let him realise just how suggestive _that_ sounded. "Uh, I mean…" How many times had he told himself not to open his mouth when he was tired…?

"I recall ye bellowin' something 'bout a perverted fucking incubus…?" Shizuku pointed out helpfully, and cocked his head to the side with a raised eyebrow.

Shiro massaged his forehead with an unarticulated grumble. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant; running down the corridor and shouting so that everybody could hear…

"Well, not literally a perverted fucking incubus; just a male demon with a twisted sense of humour. He sprinkled oneiroi dust in my face while I was asleep and fiddled with my dreams", he muttered, rubbing remaining particles from his eyelashes. It was the same substance that had led non-exorcists to invent the concept of Sandman. Reality wasn't that romantic, however: the "sand" was dandruff from the oneiroi, spirits that induced and lived in human dreams.

"That's pretty creative, I'll give 'im that", Shizuku chuckled. "In what way did 'e fiddle with 'em?"

"I'd rather not discuss that." With anyone. Ever.

"Come on, ye tossed a _vending machine_! I wanna know how ta make ye that mad!"

…and that was some rather unpleasant mental images too, yes.

"No, you don't; and you never will", Shiro concluded, and grasped the door handle to get back to his own ro-

"Meh, well… I can just ask Pheles instead."

*twitch*

"NO YOU WILL NOT!" Shiro was pointing with his whole arm, and speaking much louder than he had intended to. "Not a word, not a breath, not even a _thought _of this in his presence, do you hear me?!"

"I hear ya, I hear ya: like just about the rest o' the dorm does", he ensured, taken aback by the unexpectedly strong response to such a simple bait. "Relax, I'm just curious o' what-"

Shizuku was interrupted by the peculiar sound of someone so embarrassed he's giggling, but trying not to giggle as that would be even more embarrassing. And whatever he was so torn about, Ryuuji was too giddy to say. When he eventually got enough hold of himself to spill, Shiro wished he hadn't.

"I think I can guess what you dreamt." Ryuuji's cheeks were burning red, but he couldn't stop laughter form bouncing in his voice. "You smell like someone who has… been visited by an incubus…"

Of course. Of course: he had the same good nose for pheromones as Mephisto and Midori had, _of course _he could smell that Shiro had been turned on mere minutes ago…!

"Perverted fucking incubus, huh…?" Shizuku said, looking at Shiro as if he had expected that all along. What the hell, he had _expected _Shiro to…?

"_You sure planned this out well, you shithead._" Okay, first things first: "It was a _dream_. I'm not gay, and not for some grinning jerk of a demon", he grated out, changing his stance in hope of finding some way to lessen the discomfort in his underwear. "He just loves teasing me about it."

Some words make people's jaws drop, and some make their entire faces fall in astonishment.

"You mean he…?"

"Ye dreamt ye slept with- with _him_?"

Shit.

"_Is it even possible to screw up this bad?_" They had thought his dreams had been about women: induced by Mephisto, but about women. And when they realised what kind of dream it had really been, both Shizuku and Ryuuji fell down screaming with laughter.

"It's not that funny, guys."

"Ye kidding?! It's the best I've heard in-wahahahahaaa! Glorious! Glorious!"

"Shiro, you- you-nhnhnhnhnaahahhaha I can't believe it! This i-hihihihahaha it's just-"

"_The worst fucking day of my life_", Shiro filled in, standing before his laughing best friends with an aching hard-on in his boxers and ears heating up as if they were aiming to catch fire. Well, he wouldn't mind if they did. If he could just spontaneously self-combust he would at least save himself the humiliation. "Shut up, you two." As if. Hopefully, Shizuku would faint from lack of air soon. "You're not telling a soul about this, okay? _No one_. Especially not Kasumi-chan." They both nodded, gasping for air and tittering like bloody kindergarten girls. "I have no idea how to erase those dreams from my brain, or how I'm gonna get back at that shitty little imp, but I _will_ make him pay for this."

"How-nhhnhnh how- how did you make him this mad at you in the first place…?" Ryuuji panted, wiping his tears on his sleeve. His tanuki heritage was visible in the way the dim light that reflected back from his eyes; and negated by his very un-demonic Astro Boy pyjamas.

* * *

…explanations never come out as they were meant to, when it's three o'clock in the morning and your pride has passed on prematurely without you.

"Okay, lemme get this straight: ye – in a sense, maybe, sort of, kinda, might have – _flirted_ with him…?" Shizuku repeated, sitting cross-legged on his bunk and staring at Shiro as if hoping for a less incredible explanation.

Which he was not going to get.

"I didn't _flirt _with him", Shiro grimaced. He'd been given a desk chair to sit on, and kept one leg sloppily crossed over the other to hide the waning-but-still-visible bulge. "It was a… a strategic deception with sexual undertones. Crap, that sounds even worse."

"It sounds like what you described. I mean… you were _undressing _him."

Shiro cringed at Ryuuji's words. Yes, he _had _undressed Mephisto, or started to, but it sounded-

"Somehow it's impossible to talk about this without making it sound really weird", he muttered.

"And ye didn't think that it was a weird thing ta do in the first place…?"

"Of course, but…" Shiro ran a hand through his unruly hair, as if trying to physically sort out his scrambled thoughts. It _was _a weird thing to do, when he thought about it; and yet, it had somehow seemed like a completely logic thing to do. "It's not something I'd do to any of you guys, or anyone else." The mere thought of stripping Ryuuji was- No. Just no. "It's different with Mephisto. It's not a weird thing to do around _him._" …which in itself sounded extremely weird. "Shit, I don't know, it's just… it's a demon thing. I can't- Ow!"

"Just checkin' if yer ears 're growing pointy yet." The look on Shizuku's face suggested that only part of that was a joke. "Honestly, Shiro-san… that demon-charmer thing ye've got goin' is kinda creepy. Doesn't it ever scare ya…? That ye… That it comes so naturally to ya? That ye act like one without even thinking 'bout it – an' this whole thing with having ta actively block demons from possessing ya, it's… just what the hell are you?" Realising how that sounded, he chuckled awkwardly and looked down, scratching the back of his head. Good; because Shiro had just experienced a moment of clarity that he wasn't eager to share just yet. "Sorry, that came out wrong. I'm tired. What I meant was… Screw it, I don't know what I meant. I don't know what you are, an' ta be honest I don't really get ya." He chortled tiredly. "Ye're like that mysterious guy in manga that no one knows anything 'bout, an' then outta the blue ye do crazy stuff an' turn out ta be some kind 'a unda'cova' superhero."

Superhero…

"Special attack: throwing vending machines", Ryuuji suggested with a wide smile.

"An' if 'e's in a tight spot, 'e can use 'is Devilish Charm ta seduce 'is enemies", Shizuku fell in with a wobbly giggle.

"And I would have x-ray glasses that let me see through women's clothes."

"Why would ye wanna see through _women's _clothes…?"

* * *

A few more minutes of laughter and tired minds, and they had added the final touches to the Perverted Paladin: a legendary superhero with the power to see through (select) clothes, skin pores that could emit love potion in gas form (possibly explaining the clouds of glittering particles surrounding Oscar de Jarjayes in _Berusayu no Bara_), and the ability to summon vending machines through step dancing (it had something to do with Mephisto snapping his fingers whenever he summoned something, and what gesture would be the equivalent of that for the Perverted Paladin, but Shiro might have been too tired to catch the entire reasoning behind the step dance conclusion).

They had eventually decided that some sleep before tomorrow would be nice, and Shiro had said goodnight and walked back to his own room. Students had gone back to sleep as soon as it was clear that no danger was afoot. The dorm was silent, and no matter how softly he padded over the floorboards his steps seemed to echo in the darkness.

Silence is an awful thing. It makes one's thoughts that much louder.

_That demon-charmer thing ye've got goin' is kinda creepy._ _Doesn't it ever scare ya…? That it comes so naturally to ya?_

It was a very simple statement; Shizuku probably hadn't even thought about what he was saying. It's those simple statements that tip worlds on end. It was the first time Shiro realised that the things about demons that were obvious to him, weren't obvious to others. And in most cases never would be.

Did it scare him? At times, maybe. But what good did being afraid do? The imprint wasn't going away. Demons weren't going to stop coming after him. All he could do was to make the best of the situation and try as best he could to live as he had bef-

"Ouch, son of a-!"

Ryuuji looked surprised to see him again so soon, when he opened the door to the room he and Shizuku shared.

"I was just gonna ask if you could wake me for school tomorrow", Shiro said, twiddling the cog he'd stepped on between his fingers. "I chucked my alarm clock at Mephisto."

* * *

**A/N:**

**Oneiroi** - Greek for "dreams", and personification of such.


	35. 87: Deceptive things

**A/N:**

**Hi everyone! On the matter of updating… I've had a few people requesting faster updates. While it puts a smile on my face to know you like the story so much, I think you need to translate my updating habits into more general ones to get a proper overview. It gets a little weird when you publish the way I do, several chapters at a time, so I've done some maths on it to show why I don't update more often than I do. It's almost a year ago since I started, so if I'm ever going to bother with statistics now would be an appropriate time.**

**TEotB behind the scenes!**

**§ There's 52 weeks in a year**, and approaching the one-year anniversary of _The End of the Beginning_ there's 89 chapters published. Take into account that I've had two writing-free months during that time, to focus on studies, and you get 89 chapters written in 44 weeks. So, on average, I produce and publish between one and two new chapters every week. I don't know any author on here that works faster than that.

**§ I spend anywhere between three and nine hours** writing each day. These include not only writing and editing, but the massive research I conduct to flesh out the story. For example, I'm right now going through a phone list I've compiled, to find a Catholic priest that would be willing to give an interview on the details of his education.

**§ I currently have three analogue notepads** and 99 computer-written pages filled with research notes, plot outlines, and drafted scenes. I haven't counted words, but, technically, I've written not 200 000 words in this time but closer to 400 000.

**§ I've had to switch glasses once** this past year, since apparently it's not a myth that your eyesight deteriorates if you stare at a screen as much as I do. x'D

**§ There's 366 reviews to TEotB** as I write this, which means I've been given about one review each day! That's awesome, folks! =D

**Please don't bribe me with sweets: they make me nauseous and miserable. x') I'm very passionate about what I do, so there's no need to bribe me, really. I can't write faster than this and maintain the same standard, though, so if you want me to write any faster you'll have to steal some time-altering device from Mephisto and add more hours to my days. ;)**

**Best regards to **_**Reviewer102**_** and others who have asked**

**/Dimwit (who still does not own anything Kazue Kato has made) **

* * *

Unreliable bastards, words. They claim so proudly that they are instruments of communication, invented to bridge the gap between minds, to give shape to thought and enable one human being to share hers with another; yet they corrupt the signal, distort the intention, and create more misunderstandings than they resolve.

_Obvious_ is an especially useless word. Something obvious is something that is so blatantly apparent that words are superfluous. There is no string of thought leading to an insight that is obvious, no way for you to guide someone else to it by describing the path you took to get there. It's just there. A destination without road, a chicken without egg… Why in the world is there a word like _obvious_, when what's obvious to you isn't necessarily obvious to someone else? When you can't explain your _obvious_ to anyone, since the concept of _obvious _negates all explanation?

* * *

Shiro knew there was a difference between humans and demons; of course he knew that. But knowing… isn't the same as understanding.

"How's ya' shoulder?"

He'd been asked that all day, and each time he'd worn that confused look of someone snapping back to the surface after being submerged in the depths of thought. By the time Shizuku halted him in the corridor between lunch and history, he'd stopped trying to adjust the bandage to a comfortable position. There was no comfortable position. Despite the ice treatment, the bruised area hurt like a bitch, and would continue to do so for quite a while.

"Strained a muscle", Shiro replied. "I'm told I'm gonna have to rest it for a week, and get on a rehabilitation programme."

"Huh. No sparring 'gainst Kasu, then." Shizuku hefted his satchel a little higher onto his own shoulder. "What about the rest o' yer exams?"

"I'll be taking the remaining ones orally."

"Anythin' else ya'll be taking orally…?" he asked with a lewd grin. Wouldn't tell a soul about Mephisto's prank, no. Remind Shiro of it? Oh yes.

"Wanna take my fist orally?" he returned casually. "Doctors don't get practical training till the second year, but I'm pretty sure I can locate your cardia for you."

"Whateva' the cardia is, I'm sure mine's doin' fine without yer help."

* * *

Shizuku wouldn't dream of playing pranks on demons. He was a smart guy, he was: but his brain followed an entirely different track. He knew by heart what was taught at cram school about demons' elemental weaknesses and habits, and how to make use of that… but he didn't understand them. Not the way Shiro did. Be it imprint, or just spending time around Mephisto, or both; Shiro understood demons, understood how they worked and how to use that against them.

And understanding… isn't the same as knowing. Knowledge can be put in words and set in print, defined and explained from one mind to another. Understanding is like _obvious_: a destination without road, an insight that can't be taught or learnt, because understanding comes from within. And Shiro… understood demons.

Did it scare him? Not really. Actually…

"_Not gonna lie to myself, even if I'm the only one…_"

…it thrilled him. Which was far worse. Someone who is scared keeps his distance, and avoids harm in doing so: someone who is thrilled comes back for more kicks.

_Little by little, he will burn you to ashes_

He wouldn't get involved in the Tanzi affair, wouldn't step up on Mephisto's grand game board – but what if that wasn't enough? As Shiro walked on autopilot from classroom A to classroom B, doubts softly followed his steps through the dark corridors of his mind.

Change is nearly as deceptive as words. You'll notice change in the slow fall of the sun that draws shadows longer, and in the snowflake that melts to a droplet in your upturned palm; you won't notice it on your face, when the mirror glass watches the slow, eroding river of time flowing over your skin form day to day. Rapid change, slow change – still, you'll notice them both sooner or later. But change within? Without eyes to see the shadows in your mind, how do you tell if they've faded or grown darker?

Eyes are the mirrors of the soul, yes: gaze into another's eyes and you can tell how much you've changed. When Shizuku and Ryuuji had looked at him yesternight, Shiro had realised that he had changed – into what? A demon charmer, charmed by his own imprint-enhanced vices? A human that understood demons to the point other humans couldn't understand him? And if that change was allowed to continue, then what?

Shiro had reminded himself time and again that what the ikelos had showed him during Knight exam was his fears, not his future. …and yet, the blood had felt warm on his hands; just like it had been in Deep Keep, when the nightmare had been real.

* * *

Afternoon invited more doubts, and after another 20 minutes with an ice pack strapped to his chest he decided to go to the only person he could take such problems to. Even if said person made his skin crawl.

"Hi. I was just wondering if you had the time to… I don't know. Talk?" he told the short girl that opened when he knocked.

She didn't reply, but smiled and stepped aside to let him enter.

It was a room that looked surprisingly normal considering the two girls that lived in it. Like last time, Midori's bed linen were on the floor. On the desks and shelves was an assorted collection of peculiar treasures she had brought in, anything from yesteryear's birds' nests and lost earrings to empty cigarette packets and heaps of dried berries. When he noticed the porcelain doll head that served as lamp screen, he began to think he had exaggerated on the "surprisingly normal" thought.

Sen closed the door behind him, and tiptoed with her mini-steps to take a seat on her zabuton. Rather than remain standing and waiting for an invite that may never come, Shiro sat down on the floor and crossed his legs.

"…" Where to begin? What to say? He wasn't good at this kind of thing to begin with, and bringing his personal issues up with _Sen _of all people-

"Uncle Itsuhito told me you summoned the dogs of the underworld."

-Sen, who was the only person in the world that could say something like that and make it sound like she was discussing weather.

"Yeah, I did", he said once he remembered that Futotsuki-sensei's first name was Itsuhito. "Did he say anything else?" Like whether it was a good or a bad thing that his summon had become a much more aggressive one?

"He said you cleared the practical part of Tamer exams with no remarks."

"Well, that's nice to know." A brief moment to gather himself. "_I need to do this._" And without him even thinking, his gaze had dropped from Sen's face to the pleated pink skirt that rose and dipped over her knees. "What I came to say… You're more used to handling demons than I am. Sometimes I think I'm doing it right, but sometimes I wonder if I do. I was going to ask, if there's anything I can do…"

"There might be, but what I do not know", Sen replied softly. "The Futotsuki handle demons, yes, but we aren't pursued by them like you are. Do you remember what I said last winter? To let darkness be part of you? To look it in the eye until it loses its power over you?" Shiro nodded. "Have you?"

"I… thought I did. I started to remember things I hadn't remembered for a long time, and many things I'd tried to forget. I could think of them without reacting as strongly as I used to." He didn't want to talk about this. At all. "They lost their power over me, at least a bit. I could accept it more and more."

His parents had silently agreed to play a theatre of lies: that he could accept. His father had been a selfish, spineless asshole, and his mother weak and pathetic: that he could accept. He despised them for living a lie, despised them for choosing death instead of cleaning up the stinking mess of debt, disgrace and solitude that had been his inheritance: that, he had at long last come to accept. Barely. With embers still threatening to burst into flame at times.

But the lies that clung to his own skin, lies he didn't want to tell and secrets he didn't want to keep…

"There are still things in you that you can't accept, and recoil from." He could feel her eyes on him as she spoke. Not a glare that burns holes in one's skin, no; a soft, ghosting touch that forced the hairs on his arms up on end, despite the warmth. "My advice to you is the same as then: confront your darkness. There are things in all of us that we are not proud of: things done or thought that fill us with shame, disgust, fear, and hate. When you bury these emotions within, they grow darkness that feeds demons. These can never be extinct, for they are part of us; but they can be kept from growing, if you pull out the root from which they draw nourishment. When you unearth what you have buried, and acknowledge the unpleasant sides of yourself, you bring them under your control." Easy to say, so fucking easy to say – but how could he ever muster the strength to dig out every dark nook of his mind…? "No demon is more terrifying than the ones we have within", she continued in the same dreamy voice. "The Futotsuki learn to master them early, but others can fight demons for a lifetime without mustering the power to battle their own." Well, amen to that. "If you find that you can't, then what you can do is build walls around your heart, as you do now. Is not the best thing to do, but it will keep you safe."

Not the best thing to do, but that's what Mephisto had suggested.

"_Of course he suggested that_", he thought dryly. "_He's not human, he doesn't understand a human's need for emotional contact._" And Sen didn't understand that Shiro was, for all practical purposes, like a Futotsuki. He didn't wear their tattooed seals, nor had he bonded with a demon according to their rituals; but he was imprinted, and anything he could learn about the ways of the demon worshipper clan could be of help. "I'll try to do that." Slight shift in pitch, so slight you wouldn't consciously notice, but enough to know the speaker had closed the case and moved on to the next topic: "The Futotsuki learn to master it early, you say."

Sen nodded: a very small motion, but enough to make the combs in her hair catch the sunlight through the window.

"To prepare for bonding with our familiars", she clarified.

"About that… I read a book on the subject, but it didn't really explain why the Futotsuki have this tradition. It said it had to do with knowledge, and that bonding with a demon would grant hidden knowledge…?"

Unreliable bastards, words. They claim they have a set meaning, one that will make it easy for humans to communicate, but the truth is that each human interprets the world according to her own unique set of references. That two humans use the same word doesn't mean they interpret that word the same way, or mean the same thing.

Shiro hadn't been imprinted on a demon when he read that book, and neither had the author that wrote it: "hidden knowledge", the way he had interpreted it, meant some secret that only demons knew of. Now that he had begun to realise the effects of an imprint, he suspected that "hidden knowledge" might be the knowledge of demons themselves; the understanding that set him apart from his classmates.

"Bold inquiries", the Futotsuki girl smiled softly, looking straight through him and into distant worlds. "You must first understand, the Vatican way is not the Futotsuki way." No shit. Shiro nodded politely, adjusting his legs for a more comfortable position as he prepared to take in every word. "They teach that light and darkness are combatants, and that light will eventually vanquish darkness; the Futotsuki believe light and darkness are counterparts. For light there must be darkness, for life there must be death: like yin and yang, the two always exist together, in balance." Gracefully, she lifted one small hand palm-up. "The divine half is yin: consciousness, enlightenment, control." She held up her other hand, like the two bowls of a scale: "The demonic half is yang: impulse, desire, chaos. Together, they form a whole: a human." She brought her hands together, fingers intertwined as if in Catholic prayer. "For a human to be in balance, she must embrace both yin and yang within herself. Yin is docile, and will embrace you back; yang is a wild animal, and must be tamed. When a Futotsuki has come of age, he or she bonds with a demon as the final step in embracing yang, and becomes whole." Sen returned her hands to her thighs with a gentle smile, as if thinking back on cherished memories. "Demons embody our desires, our buried emotions, our darkness: our yang. Bonding with a demon teaches you to be the master of your own nature. If you can do that, you will achieve great insight, and power; if you can not, your desires will devour you."

It's a mere millimetre thin, the dividing line between sanity and madness; perhaps even less. That single millimetre added to Sen's smile froze Shiro from the inside and out.

"_They literally devour you if you're a Futotsuki, don't they?_" He vividly recalled Shizuku saying that a fifth of the children that undertook the clan's rite of passage didn't make it through. "_It's fucking sick…_" But not an opinion he would share with Sen, not if he wanted her to tell him more. Bringing his face under control, he asked: "How is that bonding done?"

"The Futotsuki rites belong with the Futotsuki." She tittered like a songbird, covering her teeth with her hand as a lady would. "But one could compare it to marriage, I think. Futotsuki marry twice: first to our demon partner, second to our human partner. It sounds strange to an outsider, I know", she smiled, seeing his face.

"You don't marry a demon in the same sense you marry a human, I'm guessing?" Bonding with Mephisto seemed more and more awkward the more he learnt about the custom. Accidentally marrying a demon – what kind of world-class screw-up did you have to be to accidentally marry a demon…?

"No." Well, thank god. "When you marry a human you agree to share life, love, dreams; when you bond with a demon, you share heart. No human can ever be that close to you."

"_So many wrong pictures – I wish I could turn my brain off, like a tv._"

But they kept coming, unbidden pictures that had pushed at their constraints ever since Sen urged him to face the demon within: his own stinking mess, a foul blend of death, regret and guilt boxed in and hidden away in Deep Keep with the rest of Mephisto's precious collection. Unearth what he had buried? He had buried six bodies in a tomb of lies and secrets, six hundred metres into the cold silence of the earth, and there was no way he could look upon them without breaking. He knew, because their transparent echoes sometimes woke him at night, coated in sweat without duvet or pajamas to blame for it. Humankind is blessed and cursed in that way: whatever dies lives on in memory, for better or for worse.

"I can show you how the Futotsuki meditate when we prepare for bonding", Sen continued, still like a doll and speaking almost like one. "If it doesn't help you make peace with your demons, it can at least help you focus when you shield."

Sen guided him through a number of steps on how to sit, how to align his vertebrae for maximum support with minimal effort, how to breathe and how to centre his self on a single point of existence. It was surprisingly difficult, especially the last part. Shiro was a restless nature, with a restless mind, and not well suited for meditation.

"_Be the master of your own nature_", he repeated to himself, inhaling and exhaling on Sen's count. "_Or be devoured by it._"

* * *

**A/N:**

**Cardia – **is a little bend in the oesophagus, just before the stomach. I figure Shiro must've studied anatomy to become Doctor.


	36. 88: Ways to spend your holiday

**A/N: Another chapter with M-rated content, although less graphic than the last one. I deem it to be safe even for** _**Fireminer**_**. ;P**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Wednesday blanketed True Cross Academy in that good mood holidays tend to bring, and effectively split the student body into two categories: those who were panicked or steadfast enough to cram in a few more studying hours for exams, and those who valued their time of youth and simply couldn't be bothered.

Shiro had spent half an hour in the flower shop on the corner, deciding what to buy, until he remembered that Kasumi didn't have a vase to put flowers in, or even a table to place them on. Crap.

He'd considered giving her a hair clip, since the one she had – one in leather, carved with a Dharma-chakra design – was rather threadbare; until Shizuku had told him their father had carved it for her on her seventh birthday. Crap.

He'd gone on wondering what the hell to give a girl who carried everything she owned in a bundle on her back, and crafted everything she needed by herself; eventually, he had settled for the one thing he could give her that would be appreciated, useful, and not become dead weight.

He would make her dinner.

"I didn't know you could cook", Ryuuji said in earnest surprise; himself he could barely make tea, and visited the kitchen solely out of fascination for what Shiro was doing. Which was a rather basic set of bento box dishes, but still; he hoped Kasumi would appreciate the gesture.

"Orphanage standard", Shiro said while beating eggs, sugar, mirin, salt and soy sauce together for the tamagoyaki. "All kids helped out with chores. I just proved better at cooking than cleaning." Not a skill he would advertise he had, but a very useful one still; not the least because it caused people quite the shock when they found out. Apparently, cooking wasn't something you expected a blonde-bleached delinquent to do. "It's cheaper than buying food in the cafeteria, anyway." He set bowl and chopsticks aside, and spread oil out over the frying pan with a brush.

"I could treat you, you know. I mean… it's really nice food, and, you know, if you ever want something you can't make yourself…"

Shiro smiled into the hum of the oven fan that ate the smell of omelette in greedy gulps. Ryuuji was good material for a Doctor. He had a big heart, always eager to help people; pity the rest of him got in the way.

"Thanks, Ryuuji-san, but I prefer getting by on my own means."

"…but, you don't have any means", he said, confused and more than a little shy to bring up the subject. "You've got no one to pay for school, or food, and you study too much to have a part-time jo-"

"I got a scholarship. I'll work over summer, too." He grimaced, and carefully transferred the first omelette roll onto the cutting board. "Gonna need that, to pay for 'vandalising school property'." Had he known vending machines were _that _expensive, he would've thrown something else. "Anyway, there's no need to worry, I'll get by."

"I know you'll get by, you always do; it's…" His forehead crinkled over affable puppy-eyes that were worried, but unable to pinpoint the reason for their worry. "We just want to be your friends, all of us, we… we _are _friends, I know that. It's just, sometimes…" Shiro didn't rush him; rushing and pressuring made him stutter worse than Saburota. He began coating the seasoned bits of chicken breast in cornstarch for frying, waiting for Ryuuji to find his words. "Sometimes it's like you're pushing people away", he said softly, and his voice carried emotion as painfully well as when he sang.

"I'm not-" Lie. He kept his distance; always had. As Shizuku had pointed out, Shiro liked joking and hanging with friends. But deep down… "I don't rely on others, that's all."

_Deep down, ye're cold._

The chicken sizzled in the oil, spitting burning hot droplets at Shiro's hands as he quietly added more. Cold, reserved, guarded; he'd heard many words for it. _Trust issues_ were the ones that had been written in the child psychologist's file. _Reluctance to expressing emotion_ was another line – he knew, because he'd sneaked a peek in the notepad once, when Mr. Nobuo had been urgently called to the reception counter. _Might have difficulties in forming close relationships in adult life_. As much as he'd disliked that psychologist, the old fart had diagnosed him rather accurately.

Not that he pushed people away consciously; he _wanted _to be around people, he just… didn't open up to them. Didn't show weakness around them. Didn't tell them things that he perhaps should have said.

"_Like that I was studying exorcism, that I made friends with Mephisto, that I have to shield myself from demons…_" The list could be made endless, if one went back to the years before True Cross Academy. Shiro simply didn't confide in people; not by choice, but by nature."_Who wouldn't have trust issues when all people did around you was to play theatre, and shush you when you didn't want to play your part?_" he huffed, turning the golden nuggets with chopsticks. He'd grown since then, yes. Changed since then. Still, all new things were built on top of the same old foundation that he'd done nothing to repa-

"Um, Shiro-san…?"

He'd completely forgotten about Ryuuji.

"Hm?" he said wordlessly, to show he was listening.

"Just… you know we're here for you, right? If you ever need someone to rely on, we're here for you."

"…thanks", he murmured under the sizzling of the frying pan. He _was _grateful, he was… but deep down, he doubted he would ever take Ryuuji up on that offer, even if he did find himself in need of someone to rely on.

* * *

Shiro was still in thought when he left the bento boxes to cool before he closed them. Sen's words had calmed him somewhat, but he still felt he didn't know where he was headed. And Kasumi…

Shiro sighed as he entered the shower room. He was looking forward to his date with Kasumi, of course he was – and yet, this whole trust thing… Tch, why did Ryuuji have to bring that up now? Shiro wanted to have _fun _with Kasumi, joke and laugh and have a good time, even if they couldn't spar as they had intended to. He didn't want to ponder whether he truly, deeply trusted her, whether he could open up to her, whether he-

"_Whether I can form close relationships._" Shiro shut his eyes and let the hot water wash over him, raked through his prickly hair and took careful note of any soreness in his shoulder. He'd dated plenty of girls, but never really been _close _to them. "_Pff, I was never really close to any of my friends, either._" Never relied on them. "_If I'm ever gonna make a serious attempt, it will be with someone like Kasumi._" Someone bold and shameless and funny; someone that could give him a match. He wasn't the type to lead a nice, slow-paced life, and neither was she. "_I could hit the roads with her, easily. Travel from place to place, raise enough money to eat and sleep, and see all those crazy things on the way…_" Shiro smiled into the dense steam that built around him as he rinsed the shampoo out of hi-

Blood.

Shiro squinted and strained his myopic eyes to see clearly: the water that washed down his skin was bright red, but how the hell…? Breath held, he felt himself over. There was no wound, no place that hurt, nothing that-

He snatched up the shampoo bottle, turned it upside down…

"No no no you're kidding me...!"

* * *

"I need a word with the obnoxious fuckhead you call master", he said bluntly.

"His highness is busy", replied Belial, who had by now become so accustomed to Shiro's lack of manners that any epithet applied to Mephisto worked, so long as Mephisto wasn't there to hear it. Shiro had a slight suspicion that the butler had grown lenient because he appreciated hearing somebody voice the opinions he himself was forbidden to express, but he was going to let that remain a suspicion until he'd wrung Mephisto's neck 270 degrees.

"It's a holiday: he's not fucking busy." Shiro kicked off his shoes and entered past the demon, in no way intending to let some high-score attempt at _Space Race_ stand between him and his natural hair colour. "Where is he?"

"His highness is in his bedchamber."

Probably in the middle of an anime marathon, then. Belial followed Shiro as he stalked down the hallway, past the arcade games and the dining hall, took a wrong turn at the music room, and finally arrived at Mephisto's door. Half an hour left until he would meet up with Kasumi.

"Oi, if my hair isn't-"

Mephisto did seem rather busy: one succubus straddling his hips and another straddling his face somehow gave that impression.

"_From this day on, I will _always_ knock_", Shiro promised the door as he slammed it shut. Crap, crap, crap, this was even worse than walking in on Sen and Midori… "Right", he said awkwardly, to counter the even more awkward silence. "He's busy."

"Quite. Would you like some tea while you wait for his highness to finish?"

Shiro gawked at the impeccably unfazed expression, at the flawlessly polite tone… and burst out laughing. Demons. They didn't know shame.

"Fine, fine, I'll have tea", he chuckled. "But if he isn't done in fifteen minutes, I'll be on my way." He waved offhandedly at Belial when the latter gave him a small nod of a bow. "I'll be in the library."

* * *

Shiro had finished his tea, and come several chapters into _Glass Mask_, and no Mephisto had shown up. He moved about constantly on the plush couch, checked his watch every ten seconds, and was slowly (and begrudgingly) accepting that he might have to go on his date with-

Finally, the sound of shoji doors sliding apart. Shiro put his glasses back on his nose, and was greeted by the view of a Mephisto that seemed to have had that smug grin glued onto his face ever since he tampered with his dreams. He sauntered over in a deep purple morning gown that flowed like liquid over his skin; that special kind of gown, tied in that special kind of way that puts one question in your mind: _is he wearing anything at all under that?_

"Such a dedicated principal, busy even on holidays", Shiro smiled wolfishly.

"The only way I would ever want to be busy on a holiday." Mephisto seated himself in the opposite armchair as if it were a throne. "And you…? Shouldn't you be putting on your Sunday best for miss Honda?"

He knew that? Pff, of course he knew. Spying on students seemed to be his favourite pastime when there were no animes on tv. Mepphy Land was for entertaining the humans, the Academy campus for entertaining the demon… Mephisto crossed one leg over the other in his usual fashion, with the effect that the silky fabric slid to reveal one very long, very slender leg.

"_Nope, not wearing anything under that_", Shiro guessed without any real surprise. "Interesting that you bring up that. I was just going to, when-" No, he couldn't go on like this. Taking a moment to fight the twitch in his eyebrow into submission, he resumed: "Could you stop smugging me?"

"Smugging you…?" Mephisto did a surprisingly good job of looking innocent, considering what he had been doing mere minutes ago.

"You know, that thing you do with your face that makes me want to set fire to your beard?" Shiro elaborated as politely as he could.

"My, it couldn't be that my little prank vexed you...?" There it was: smugness so disgustingly contented it deserved its own transitive verb. "You seemed to quite enjoy it~"

"If you think a flying vending machine is a sign of appreciation, you've missed some rather fundamental parts of human communication."

"If you think arousal is a sign of antipathy, I'd say you are the one who has missed fundamental parts in human communication."

Word-fencing with demons: a sport for people who love losing. Shiro had to suppress a very, very strong desire to rip out the pages in _Glass Mask_ before the demon's eyes. However, he needed Mephisto's cooperation…

"Whatever; look, I don't have all day. I'm going on a date in fifteen minutes, and you will fix my hair before I do."

"How do you mean 'fix'? I think it looks good the way it is~"

"Yes, lovely; but the thing is, I'm not going on a date with you", Shiro smiled with poisoned pleasantness. "I'm going on a date with Kasumi-chan, and I'd rather not go looking like cotton cand-"

The real candy sashayed into the library without a thread on either body, and Shiro forgot everything he had been about to say, or why he was in Faust Mansion in the first place.

Long, slender legs carrying a goddess the colour of coffee, an alluring Amazon that looked like she would taste of dark chocolate and caramelized almonds. Bloody hell, one night with her and he could die happ-

Curls of glistening copper bounced against hourglass curves of cream-skinned sin, and he worshipped every part of her, from her full breasts to her arrow- tipped tail.

"You leave us for him, your highness…?" the red-haired one purred; Shiro could swear to god he felt her voice physically, like golden syrup tracing ringlets up his thighs. "He must be something special~"

"An acquired taste, my dear, and a rather particular such", Mephisto replied easily.

The tall, dark succubus had poised herself behind the principal's chair, and slid her hands down his frame as she leaned forward, ravenous eyes locked on Shiro with a look that made him pant with need.

"He looks like dessert", she murmured, leaving scratch marks on Mephisto's chest that healed over instantly; all Shiro could think of was a panther sharpening its claws for the kill.

"One I must deny you, since he is a student of mine." He tipped his head back to meet her lips, that insufferable jerk, knowing full well what the display did to Shiro's compos- "Unless, of course, the dessert wants to be eaten." Three pairs of predator eyes, one green and two lavender, settled on Shiro: the green ones held a particularly mischievous glimmer. "It's hardly appropriate for a headmaster to toss his protégées into the hands of Gehenna's finest courtiers." The rich giggles of the succubi made the blood throb in Shiro's veins. The voluptuous redhead threaded her fingers into Mephisto's purple hair, and the demon responded by sliding his hand to the small of her back and planting a kiss in her groin. "However~ this is a holiday, and school is temporarily closed. Furthermore, the Academy's jurisdiction does not include my private estate, so…" he sighed in feigned defeat, "…if the folly of youth were to seize hold of a young soul under such conditions, the Academy's headmaster would have no mandate to stop him."

…had Shiro had a single sober thought left in his head, he might have cared to keep his facial muscles in check and look a little less like a testosterone-tripping dimwit. As it were, he hadn't.

"_Am I being offered a threesome with two insanely hot demon chicks…?_"

Every kinky fantasy a teenage mind has ever conceived melted over his retina and numbed his hearing with the fevered panting of lust. And Mephisto sat there, smirking, one hand on each succubus as if they were obedient attack dogs waiting for his command. Oh yes, let folly sweep this young soul off his feet and into bed for the rest of that da-

"I have a date." And a throbbing hard-on that he didn't even bother trying to hide. But Shiro did have a date, and, as much as it drained his self-control to decline Mephisto's offer, he would not see that date ruined. "And it's due in fifteen minutes, so if you're not gonna fix my hair I'll have to be on my way right now."

"Going like that?" he smirked. It was rather evident to Shiro that he was not speaking of his pink hair. "Carmilla doesn't need more than a tenth of that time to finish you off." The copper-haired succubus licked her lips with a hungry smile, and Shiro's self-control wavered like a candle-flame in wind. "And if I'm wrong in that estimation", Mephisto continued with a grin, "I will turn your hair whichever colour you like."

It was probably a stupid thing to do, but he couldn't face Kasumi in his current state, and he might get his hair returned to normal; and he was a teenage guy with a billion hormones clogging his cognitive facilities.

"And if you're right?" he managed to say after swallowing a few times.

"You keep dying it pink the whole next semester; and if anyone asks why, you aren't allowed to say it's because of a bet."

"Well…" Screw dignity: there was no one around to see the wolfish grin growing on his lips except demons. "Youth's prone to folly, so… deal."


	37. 89: Beyond all expectation

**A/N:** **I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

"Nice hair ye've got, Shiro-kun!" Kasumi smiled as she skipped down from the railing of the bridge by the night market square.

"…yeah, Mephisto thought so too", he panted, having run most of the way from campus. Stupid demon, stupid bet – stupid idiot brain that conveniently  
forgot succubus saliva is the strongest known aphrodisiac in Gehenna.

"I'm gonna feel bad about beating ya up when ye're this worn out before we've even started sparring." Kasumi rocked back on her heels, walking staff slung  
across her shoulders like a yoke and lower arms dangling leisurely over it. "Ye've got stamina like an eighty year-old."

"I know, I know." Mephisto had said something similar, the lecherous little imp... Shiro wiped his face with his tie; the latter had bounced around and  
slapped him in the face when he ran, and eventually he'd slipped it over his head. "You'll haah have to beat me up some other time, I'm not fit for exercise  
right now. Got haah got myself a training injury", he puffed, indicating his right shoulder.

"Easier still ta beat ya up, then", she grinned, and twirled her staff around like a full-blown martial arts expert; it halted a mere decimetre from Shiro's nose.  
"But I think yer pride's taken enough damage from runnin' through town with that hair already, so I'll be nice." The staff made an elegant somersault and  
landed back in her hand. With a pleased smile and a clonk from the staff, she set the end down on the age-smoothed wooden boards of the bridge.

"You think it's a nice gesture to spare me, rather than end my suffering?" Shiro hoisted his eyebrows high to exaggerate the act. "You're a cruel woman."

"Well, if that's how ye like it~"

Shiro juggled the bundle with the bento boxes over to his right hand, to make sure he wouldn't move that arm around too much when he dodged Kasumi's  
playful jabs. They attracted quite a bit of attention from people around, and the occasional frown from elders who were of the opinion that it wasn't proper for  
adults to play with sticks in public. It so happened that Shiro rather enjoyed playing with sticks in public, however; and if he could irk some uptight old fart by  
doing so, he enjoyed it even more.

"Alright, twinkle-toes: what's that suspicious bundle ye're guardin' so carefully?" Kasumi eventually ceased her barrage of thrusts, after successfully herding  
Shiro backwards so that he was almost run over by a horse carriage. There were all kinds of things one could do in True Cross Town when holidays ambushed  
the calendar, of which one was going for an old-fashioned European two-span ride. Or getting ploughed down by one.

"Dinner." He assumed a better grip on the bundle and hoped to heaven that the dishes hadn't become jumbled when he hopped around. "I was gonna bring  
flowers, but you don't strike me as a flower type of girl."

"Aww, but ye did bring me flowers, didn't ya~?" Kasumi knew _exactly _how cute that impish smile made her look, otherwise she wouldn't use it like that.  
"Right, Fuji~?"

"It sounds so cutesy when you say that", Shiro grimaced. What was it with girls and his surname? Sayuri Moriyama had said the same thing…

"Goes perfect with ye' pink hair", she grinned back. "Guess ye look more like a dahlia, as it were. Come along, we'll find some nice place ta eat that." She  
nodded her head across the bridge, towards the forested area. "An' what's this injury ye've gotten…?"

* * *

The light rain earlier in the day was coaxed out of the vegetation by bright sunlight, and brought with it the lush, steaming smell of earth. Once again  
Kasumi guided him through parts of True Cross Town Shiro didn't know existed; this time a majestic bamboo forest, where thick, bright green stems cropped  
up on worm-like roots all around them, like pillars in a cathedral that didn't bother with the formality of straight lines. Birds high above called shrill warnings  
through the rustling of leaves, but other than that the only noise came from their feet and voices.

Eventually, bamboo gave way to trees that curved out over the water like swan's necks to admire themselves in the still surface. It was a bashful place, the  
kind that draws away from beaten tracks and human disturbance to find peace in shaded groves. Moss clung tightly to the brink of the lake, ducking under  
the heavy trunks of fragrant mulberry trees and weeping willows that shielded the lake from prying eyes with their green hair. Glistening dragonflies cut  
through the air, dancing erratically between the glowing cotton motes that left the willows at the gentlest breeze.

"I had no idea there was a place like this here", he admitted. "What's it called?"

"Izanagi's Mirror", she replied, setting her walking staff to rest against the mulberry tree closest by, "from which the moon god was born an' climbed up inta  
the sky."

"Sure looks like it could be that, if old myths were true."

"Nah, I just made it up. I don't know if it has a name – but I do know it holds prefect temp'reture fer swimmin'", she confided, and began the task of undoing  
the sash that held her robes together.

"Are you serious?" fell out of Shiro's mouth. _No _girl he'd _ever _dated had proposed to strip down and swim out in the open…

"Think of it as a bikini, ya prude", she smiled, dropping her yukata on a fallen trunk that had been eaten almost to invisibility by grass and moss. She was  
keeping her underwear on… dammit… but that black bra hugged her breasts perfectly… "Swimmin' is gentler on yer shoulder than sparrin'; good fer stretchin'  
out an' such." Oh, she was gorgeous, so gorgeous… "An' ye need a good wash after that sprint."

Shiro was quietly grateful for betting against Mephisto. Succubi live off sexual energy – can kill people, even, if they seduce the same victim repeatedly – and  
Carmilla's ministrations had drained him enough to prevent any embarrassing mishaps from swimming with Kasumi.

But damn, she was hot. And funny. And rough. And if he was ever going to make a serious attempt with anyone, it was with her.

* * *

The water soothed his skin, washed away the sweat and worries that clung to him. He allowed the muscles in chest and back to stretch gently, as he had  
been taught to do for rehabilitation. Nothing but birdsong, clear water, and willow seeds filling the air with bright, warm snow… it doesn't take much to distract  
a human mind from its problems.

They talked of this and that, exchanged good stories, and tried and failed to catch diving beetles that scuttled about near the brink of the lake. Shiro may not  
have been allowed to say why his hair was pink, but Kasumi had no problem guessing who lay behind. He simply stated that Shizuku had been right in carving  
him as a wooden donkey.

Back up on land, Kasumi wrung the water out of her hair, and Shiro…

"Shit…" he groaned over the bento boxes. A stupid donkey indeed. "I forgot to bring chopsticks."

"That's cute, Fuji", she snickered, causing Shiro to grimace as if tasting something bitter. No guy wants to be cute, dammit. "We'll just make some, then."

After a bit of rummaging in her clothes Kasumi brought out a woodcarving knife, and proceeded to scrutinize the mulberry tree for suitable twigs. Shiro jumped,  
grabbed hold of a branch with his left hand, and pulled it down for her.

"Guess ye're good fe' something after all", she smiled appreciatively, and set to work with cutting them chopsticks.

"Yeah, as Shizu-san's stand-in. Are you sure he's your brother? Or did he get all the family's growth hormones?"

"I've got a knife, Fuji, an' I'm tall enough ta reach the important parts with it", she threatened with a smile in her voice.

They sat side by side on the fallen trunk, letting the sun dry the few garments they wore while they ate. It was a very simple dinner, and a crude way to eat  
it, but Shiro couldn't remember he had ever enjoyed a meal more. The silence when they ate was nothing like the awful, tiptoeing tension he had known  
around the table when he was little. This silence was warm, relaxed, undemanding; peaceful. Peaceful the way very few moments in his life had been.

His eyes wandered idly over the glimmering of water behind the willow leaves, the blades of grass peeking up between his toes, the soft scent of mulberry  
every time he brought the chopsticks to his mouth… Kasumi's tattoos were spaced symmetrically over her thighs, belly, arms, chest… tattoos were taboo in  
Japan, but Shiro didn't mind. He may be a stupid donkey, but not stupid enough to judge people by their looks.

"Normally I'd say it's rude ta stare", she teased with a grin, "but I've got a pretty good view too, so I ain't gonna complain."

"Shameless woman; I was looking at the tattoos", he said reproachfully. …although the body they were on did hold a fair share of his attention, too. "Didn't  
that hurt?"

"Mh", she grunted in response, mouth stuffed with lemon chicken. "The Futotsuki use the old tebori techniques fe' their tattoos. Takes hours, but there's  
somethin' in the rhythm – ye know, tchk tchk tchk…" She mimicked the motion of penetrating skin with her chopsticks. "It gets almost meditative after a  
while, an' when ye focus on that it hurts less. That, on the other hand", she said, pointing the chopsticks at the long scars in Shiro's side, "looks real painful."

"Just a hobgoblin." He traced the pale, shimmering tissue with a finger. "Their claws are made for digging, so they're not that sharp."

Then there was the ugly, triangular scar left by the tengu claw in his thigh; the semi-circle of white dots in his trapezius muscle where the naberius had bit  
him; the matching, jagged lines on each shoulder, where the tengu had grabbed him; and the by comparison insignificant scar in his eyebrow, from when  
he'd held Shizuku and Kita apart in the changing room.

"_Well, at least I've got eyelids, unlike Goggles-sensei._" Injuries and loss of body parts were part of the job description if you were an exorcist, but that didn't  
discourage him – or the others. "Shizu-san's got one huge scar on his back", he remembered. "He never told me what did it."

"Ah, that. So 'e still doesn't talk about it…?" She blew air at a willow seed that drifted dangerously close to her bento. "Well, 'e was at a sensitive age… Kaori  
an' Kei had left life's path by then: my younger sisters, an' Shizzy's older sisters", she filled in, tapping one chopstick absentmindedly against her lip as she  
spoke. "So it was mom, dad, me an' Shizzy. We'd been trekkin' north, through the mountains, when the village we stayed the night in was swept by a  
wyvern." Kasumi pulled a bitter grimace, and for a moment Shiro was reminded how much older she was. "Kill fer sport, bloody things. The villagers didn't  
have a clue what was happenin', with people suddenly getting' hoisted inta the air, or torn open like gutted piglets. We did what we could ta buy them time,  
so mom started chanting." She gazed out beyond the lake, beyond the horizon into the past, mechanically plucking with her remaining food. "It got her in  
the back, broke 'er spine. But she kept chanting." A translucent smile ghosted her lips. "Dad fought like an animal ta protect her. It was… beautiful. The  
things humans do fer each other. 'e was a great man, our dad – Shizzy's so much like him at times. 'e wasn't older than thirteen when it happened, but 'e  
ran like 'e had Satan an' all his sons at his heels ta help dad protect mom, an' I ran after 'im… Mom made it, but dad didn't. That's when Shizzy got 'is scar."  
Her smile grew a little warmer, her gaze a little closer in time. "'e's grown a lot since then, in every way. That khakkhara 'e's got used ta be twice as long  
as 'e was. It was dad's."

Shiro followed her gaze, past the lake and into his own memories.

"Your dad was awesome."

"He was."

"Your mom, too."

"Yeah." Kasumi smiled into her bento, pushing tamagoyaki out of the way in favour of some maitake mushroom. "Shizzy told me ye're alone", she began  
softly. "No parents, no siblings. How would ya feel 'bout getting adopted?"

By her and Shizuku? He'd never even thought about it – mostly because he wasn't-

"Nothin' with papers an' crap: just havin' someplace ta call yer own", she interrupted his silence. "Family's where ye feel ye belong; where ye' heart is. So…?"

Adopted. Shiro tried his best not to show he'd been hit in the gut by a millstone, and dragged down to the bottom of the ocean by another. He should've  
known, really. He was seven years younger, a child by comparison; Kasumi didn't see any prospective husband in him, only a second little brother to tease  
and care for. It was his own damn imagination that had tricked him into believing he-

A small, warm hand laid itself over his on the trunk.

"…or maybe ye were thinking 'family' in some other way?"

The tiny, bright light of hope in her eyes lit Shiro's insides like a bonfire, tied his tongue to his palate, and left him an absolute grinning idiot.

* * *

On the way back through town they walked hand in hand, glowing with that special light that comes from two young hearts beating together. Shiro  
almost got hit by the horse carriage again, but that was okay. He'd forgotten his tie over by the lake, but that was okay. He had a spare, and everything  
was okay, because Kasumi loved him.

It's a powerful thing, love. It twists one's head worse than does a demon, and weaves illusions stronger than any kitsune's work. One could say it's  
human magic, worked on another human and binding the two together in a world of their own where everything is perfect. …well, almost everything.

"So what are ye planning ta retaliate with? Ye know, fer this?" She had to stretch up on the balls of her feet to pull a strand of his bubblegum pink hair.

"I haven't thought of anything yet", he admitted. "Any ideas?"

"Hoo~ plotting tagether now, hm?" she grinned wide, and that impish gleam crept into her eyes. "Well well~ I don't know what weak spots te aim for, so  
could ye give me a quick break-down…?"

"Alright…" Shiro brought up his hand to count. "He loves manga and anime – all kinds of it. He's a neat freak and abhors bacteria. He's ticklish."

"He's _ticklish?_" she laughed incredulously. "How d'ya even know that?"

"Long story best left untold", he tweaked in. "He's a disaster in the kitchen. He's got more plushies than a ten year-old girl. He absolutely sucks at drawing,  
and gets insulted if you point that out. He loves sweets and doesn't take well to holy water in his tea. He-"

"Oi, Fuji." Kasumi raised their joined hands and pointed. "I think I've found yer retaliation."

"You're a devil, Kasumi…" Shiro snickered, grin widening with each potential application that lit up in his mind. "Have you got a paper tissue I can borrow?"

* * *

**A/N:**

**Fuji** – with the kanji used in Shiro's surname, it means Wisteria.  
**Twinkle-toes** – because Toph Beifong is awesome.


	38. 90: Settling things

**A/N: ****_Gecko _****is to blame here, and so am I. x')**

**…and I think one of **_**wildkurofang**_**'s reviews inspired a verse or two. No Göthe-imitations this time, since I wanted it to be more dialogue-ish. Sorry that it's just one chapter, but the next one is extremely long and takes time. ^_^'**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Exams… were over.

It took a while before Shiro had disabled the automatic "which subject should I study next?" reflex that had divided his consciousness into a set schedule: a process that gave him the strangest feeling of relaxing a tensed muscle after exercise, but mentally.

His desk needed cleaning: of course, the first thought that formed in his relaxed brain was a silly one. The desk glowered at him from underneath the eraser shreddings and the toppled paper-towers and declared that no, it was not a silly thought. It really did need cleaning.

* * *

There is an intimate though often overlooked connection between the world outside and the world inside. Most people who embark on the task of cleaning their desks will at some point wonder if the desk isn't just a metaphor, and if it might be the disorganisation in their minds that translates its needs into manageable forms. Tangible problems are more easily handled than the winding spiral knots of thought, after all: and if you're lucky, the metaphor might be the mirror you needed to view your thoughts from a different perspective.

It could be so, of course: the subconscious is a clever trickster in getting its own way. It could also merely be that the desk needed to be tidied.

* * *

When Shiro was done, and the fresh smell of soap lay spread out on the desk, he felt lighter at heart. Things were going the right direction now. Knots were finally loosening, strings were finally aligning – and no matter how he squinted for shadows, the future ahead seemed bright and promising.

Drawing a deep breath of lemon and pine, he left the room to see if he could chase away the one remaining shadow.

* * *

True to his promise the other day, Shiro stopped at the white double doors and knocked.

"Can I come in, or are you 'busy'?"

"As a matter of fact I am", Mephisto's voice sounded from within the office. "Would you be so kind and wait?"

"Sure, take your time."

He assumed Mephisto would get the hint, even if he wasn't likely to entertain any succubi during office hours. Odd for him to have a visitor now, though. The Academy had become virtually void of staff, all teachers having retired into crammed offices to correct exams. Who could have anything to discuss with the principal now?

Shiro was practicing manual dexterity with one of his cigarettes when the door handle turned from inside. The cigarette got tucked behind his ear, and he pushed away from the wall he'd been leaning against – and missed a step when he saw who had been to see Mephisto.

Many things happen when you suddenly have time on your hands; when the tunnel-visioned focus releases its grip and all the things it blocked out flow back into your consciousness. Desks that need cleaning, for example. Thoughts that need organising. Changes that have occurred in the absence of your notice.

Saburota had been dispatched to the periphery of Shiro's awareness for the past weeks, like a piece of furniture. He had either sat by the desk writing reports, or been away on missions that would subsequently place him back at the desk with more reports. If they had exchanged any words, Shiro hadn't had the storage space or the time to archive them in memory.

Saburota came sharply into focus as he passed Shiro by on his way out. Rapid change, slow change – you'll notice them both sooner or later. When you have the time to look for them.

Saburota had been smiling. For lack of better word.

Shiro turned his head to look at the straight, uniformed back disappearing down the corridor. It looked like it would hurt to be that perfectly… perfect. And that smile...

"What was he doing here?" he asked, not bothering to turn his head towards the one he directed the question at. Mephisto's big ears caught everything.

"He came looking for enlightenment regarding the nature of his cousin's fate in Deep Keep. A most committed young man", he replied smoothly from behind the big desk before the high windows. "Although a sharp mind should watch carefully what it commits itself to."

Mephisto had seen it too, then: the murky water beneath the sheet of polished ice.

"What did you tell him?" Shiro grabbed the backrest of a striped armchair as he walked and dragged the heavy piece of furn- Heh, no. It wasn't heavy. Not anymore. When he swivelled it around to set it in front of Mephisto's desk, he tried lifting it as he did: the old-fashioned armchair yielded without resistance. "_Would you look at that? With only one hand._"

"A piece of wordsmithing of suitable design", he replied with a furtive smile, and a small voice in the back of Shiro's mind told him that Mephisto enjoyed toying with Saburota as much as Shiro himself had, that time when he'd been on cigarette withdrawal. The difference was that Mephisto didn't have any conscience that told him to stop. "I assume you had a good read?"

"Yup; so if you could lend me the next one…?" Shiro had barely placed the manga magazine on the desk before the next issue poofed into existence on top of it. "Thanks. And go easy on Saburota-senpai, would you?" Because _someone _had to be his conscience. "He wasn't okay before, he's even less okay after his cousin was killed with no killer to be found." He put the magazine down in his lap and slouched back in the chair to make it somewhat more comfortable.

"Such heart-warming concern for your colleagues, Shiro – gratuitous as it is. I may not be able to lessen the burden on Todo-kun's mind, but I certainly won't increase it", he ensured and spread his hands with a jovial look of innocence. "As Branch Director, my topmost priority is the welfare of my employees~"

…sometimes, policy and scheme can fill the same function as conscience, Shiro supposed. Cogs in the machinery tend to work better if they're not broken.

"You're more than a little warped, but that's nothing new", he stated lightly. "I dropped by 'cause I had an unusually informative chat with Kita-san the other day. The Yaonaru don't like you much, apparently."

"I find that my presence in exorcist circles is tolerated more often than appreciated." And that they had no choice but to tolerate him put a smug, content undertone in his bouncing voice.

…Shiro couldn't explain it – which was all and well, because he never could. Not when he felt that… that instinct. Different things triggered it, and the only thing he'd learnt was to recognise the feeling when it came. Meditating as Sen had shown had made him a little more observant of it, which in turn allowed him to decide whether to pull the brake or go along with the impulse. This time, he chose to follow.

"And yet tolerance seems too kind a word when spite is spoken snidely. It was hardly crude coincidence when your school was wrought where worlds entwine."

"I do not court coincidence if I can have a say; to plan ahead and strategize, that's the demon way." Mephisto hadn't expected that kind of reply, but picked up instantly in his own smooth cadence.

"To what end would you strategize, if that was your design? The Yaonaru don't seem to think your intentions are benign." Ngh, it didn't sound as good as when Mephisto did it…

"Benign's a sell-sword word, dependent on who speaks it; a reply would cut with forking edge whoever he that seeks it", he returned with ease, crossing his arms with an amused glint in the green eyes.

"_He really is the deity of words and wit._" He made it sound so easy, as if it just poured out of his mouth like a stream of silver. "Tie that tongue of silver still and speak less like a serpent; I seek the cause this school was built, and…" Fuck: how do you rhyme on serpent? "…why you gather artefacts so fervent -ly."

No, Shiro couldn't explain it. It was like hearing music in the distance and tapping the rhythm unawares. Some part of his brain reacted to it, couldn't reproduce it, and left him with an impulse to join a dance he didn't know the steps of.

"A serpent like myself most esteemed his tongue doth hold, and shouldn't need enlighten you; the taste of metal's cold. Be it silence gilt or speech of supple silver that grievance to you dealt – should you like it otherwise, that serpent's tongue", he purred softly, "the heat of passion might just make it smelt~"

…yeah, didn't need that bedroom look on his face to know what kind of reply he was fishing for.

"I surrender", Shiro smiled and rubbed his fingers over his forehead, as if easing an itch on the inside of his skull. "I can't coordinate brain and mouth well enough to answer that."

"No need to coordinate if you only use one of them~" he suggested with a bright grin.

"What kind of principal are you, discouraging students from learning? I'll keep talking till I can coordinate", he smiled amiably as he turned the dialogue around. "About the Yaonaru: what's the deal with building the Academy at that weak spot?"

Apparently, he should figure that out on his own: the flirty look was gone in an instant, and Mephisto instead tipped his head to the side and told him with his non-existent eyebrows to _think_. …and while it was pedagogic and all to be encouraged to think for yourself, a push in the right direction would help the process.

"It's a weak spot in Assiah's defence: what does one do with weak spots in the defence, Shiro…?"

"You… fortify them?"

"Not so complicated, was it? You build guard towers and man them with capable guards." He folded his arms outwards elegantly, indicating the Academy around them. "And when your stronghold gains reputation for its high standards, it becomes an attractive location to store all manner of things that cause trouble for less fortified keeps."

It sounded reasonable, which counted for nothing since Mephisto could make anything sound reasonable. The only thing he had de facto said was that this was the explanation Shiro would have to live with.

"So all that stuff is more of an excuse for the Yaonaru to dislike you; and the real reason they do is that when you came here, the Order replaced them as the most influential exorcists in the country?"

"Replaced? Such a mundane term; clearly, you don't understand the _art _of politics." Oh yes, Mephisto and art… "Politics is war, with words for weapons to conquer the hearts and wallets of the battleground that is the people; war waged with espionage and blackwash and promises made to be broken", he declaimed passionately, looking like he was conducting an orchestra in the process. "A spectacular cloak-and-dagger theatre of deceitful friendliness and polished masks; a coliseum where liars and thieves compete to see who's most apt at his profession!" Any moment, Shiro expected him to mount the desk to the sound of bronze trumpets, with the Japanese flag billowing dramatically in the background.

"_And some of Oscar de Jarjayes' sparkles for good measure_", he grinned to himself.

"It was many years ago that this noble thief stole the title from the Yaonarus, but an undefeated champion seldom sees his laurels taken without grudge." A gilded wreath of leaves popped into existence around his head, and sparkled at least a little bit in the lamplight. "Dear Roma, with all your intrigues and poisoned schemes; if you could see what has become of you today…" he sighed deeply, and skewered a sakura mochi with a flourish of his wrist. "Japan isn't bad, but it lacks that certain dedication to backstabbing that made politics in ancient Rome so exciting."

"I mourn your loss", Shiro said as sincerely as his grin would allow. "So you gave the honour of guardianship of Deep Keep to the Todos, just to piss the Yaonaru off even more?" Childish favouritism and bullying on the grown-ups' playground, but he wouldn't put that past Mephisto.

"It was a natural course of action, to accentuate our disagreement."

Nope, wouldn't put that past Mephisto.

"Fine as a fish in water in the world of politics, I hear", Shiro snickered. "But what of this artefact they've got? I understand why they'd hate to give it over to their 'enemy' – both of their enemies – but is it something they actually have any use for, or they're just being stubborn for the hell of it…?"

"They have no use for it whatsoever", Mephisto chuckled, and twirled the toothpick between his fingers with a smile. "Demon body-parts can be used for decoration at best, although I can think of few humans who would find that aesthetically pleasing. The artefact does, however, give them something to set them apart from other exorcists; and the Yaonaru have always taken great care to set themselves apart from other exorcists." His chuckles grew more intense, until they shook his skinny frame like an earthquake. "In all honesty, I selected the Todos to establish a lineage family that could take my place as the target of their spite – I could never have predicted how well that seed would grow. Fufufufu rivalry that's left to germinate over generation after generation builds flavour like stored wine~"

…and today, neither Yaonarus nor Todos were aware that they had been pitted against each other on purpose, like roosters in a cockfight, long before they were born; meat-shields and entertainment for the game master. Shiro could see the humour in it, but more than that he felt the cold chill that comes with having a conscience. That was one very, _very _good motivation not to get anywhere near Mephisto's large-scale games.

"Why is this spot so vulnerable, then?" Shiro asked, plucking down the cigarette that had begun tipping dangerously behind his ear. "Is _that _just coincidence, or is there a reason?"

Mephisto levelled a heavy-lidded, unblinking gaze at Shiro. So striking, that vibrant green…

"Whether coincidence or design is behind it, the location of this weak spot is known in Gehenna, too." If it was his words that came slower, or if he actually slowed time as he spoke… impossible to tell. "There is a stronghold built under it there as well: a palace, more precisely." Involuntarily, Shiro's jaw clenched tighter. "If father ever gains a way of opening a gate to Assiah, he will open it here. I let him think my guard tower is a reception hall, and gather as many artefacts as I can to have means of stalling him if a gate does open." Shiro sat stock still, absorbing every word. It was so rare to see Mephisto this- "Oh, and there's an anime special airing on Saturday: care to watch it?" –this lit up with expectation like a kid on Christmas Eve.

The brief tension poured out of Shiro as something between a huff and a laugh. Really. Demons; turning on a hairpin.

"I can't, I'll be spending the day with Kasu-chan and Shizu-san before they leave town", Shiro smiled. "And what's that supposed to be? Puppy-eyes?"

Mephisto's face had assumed something that looked a little like moping, a little like pleading, and a little like neither expression could be pulled off by a centuries old demon.

"If I want to do puppy-eyes, I turn into a puppy." Yep, he was moping. "These are when-will-it-be-my-turn-to-have-fun-on-summer-holi days-eyes."

"Don't you ha-" Shiro suddenly felt stupid. It wasn't that unusual an occurrence, but it was a new kind of situation with a new kind of stupid: Mephisto's pouty glare was a sample of when-will-it-be-my-turn-to-have-fun-on-summer-holi days-_with_-_you_-eyes. "Well… if you give me a day off from the janitor job we can go to Mepphy Land." And suddenly Christmas wasn't cancelled anymore. "I can always pop in after work and play arcade games, though I'm _really _rusty by now, so you can pretty much expect to win." Shiro found himself grinning and shaking his head before he knew it. "And right now I can't convince myself to believe you're Satan's son."

Not when the green eyes were shrunken down to two arcs of pure joy, and the wide grin sparkled like a toothpaste advertisement.

"Too adorable…?"

"Yeah, too adorable", Shiro agreed with a smile of his own. "Anyhow, I-" The trouser pocket was empty when he patted it. Excellent. "Where does stuff go when you poof it away, the way you always do with my lighter?" he asked, rolling his unlit cigarette between thumb and forefinger.

"That depends." He gestured with his toothpick like a pointer. "If it's a teacup, I put it on the kitchen counter; if it's a magical object I don't want lying around, I store it in a pocket dimension." The wooden tip pointed at Shiro. "Your lighter I put in my scarf drawer."

"Oh. I see." Shiro could no longer keep the innocent act together. "Well, in that case", he put the cigarette between his smiling lips and fished out the lighter form his shirt pocket, "I think I'd best be going." _Priceless_, Mephisto's face when he lit the cigarette…! "See you later." Shiro flashed his best rascal-grin as he rose, magazine in hand, and made for the door. "_Not too fast, not too slow…_" He heard the muffled pop when Mephisto summoned the object he had poofed out of Shiro's trouser pocket earlier. "_Okay, maybe a little faster._" He leapt the remaining steps to the door, pulled it open and got out just in time to hea-

"SHIROOOOOO!"

His voice cracked like a shrill gunshot, and set Shiro off sprinting down the corridor, sliding over the squeaking clean marble as he turned the corner, leaping down the stairs three steps at a time, and laughing the way you do when you've just planted a clump of horseshit in your principal's scarf drawer.

* * *

**A/N: So, that was what Shiro and Kasumi planned as revenge. Nothing spectacular, but bad enough for a clean-freak like Mephisto. =P**

**Victorious gladiators **were rewarded with laurels, among other things.

**Palace? **– Not that I know, but if you look through ch 39 of the manga, there is one frame (shortly after Rin's been knocked through a wall by Amaimon) where you see the silhouette of Gehenna's equivalent of True Cross Academy in the background. What struck me when I read is that it looks like windows on that silhouette. That may of course owe to the less-than-satisfying format of reading on a computer screen, but... oh well. I don't think Mephisto chose that spot for the Academy on a whim. And just the fact that _there is something there _makes my eyebrows go up. Because I can't really imagine that Mephisto first built the Academy in Assiah, and then there pops up a corresponding mountain in Gehenna to mirror it. That sounds pretty dumb. x') So this mountain, or palace, or whatever it is, was probably there first, and then Mephisto built the Academy on the corresponding location in Assiah - for reasons I have absolutely no clue of. |-D


	39. 91: In vino veritas

**A/N: **

**Sorry for the length, guys. x/ I think of it as reflecting a very long, very tiring but also very enjoyable day for Shiro and Mephisto.**

Recall that** Billion-dollar Question **I mentioned in ch 73? Well, here we are: the Billion-dollar Question, and what I think the answer to it might be. (Don't be discouraged by the length of this chapter: much of it is footnotes/analysis.)

**Many thanks to **_**Zeitdieb **_**for being my knight in shining armor! x)**

**…and a response, of sorts, to** _**NeuroticNeko**_**. =P**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created. **

* * *

Quite a few students had asked him if he was locked out, and they had all received a negative response: no, Shiro's key was in his pocket, thank you very much. Some had politely inquired if Saburota had wanted some privacy with his girlfriend, and before Shiro could reply to that they had continued down the corridor, laughing. A few curious idiots had asked if he stood in the corridor because the poltergeist from White Night had come back to his room, and they had been sent away by death glares that forbade any further questions on the subject.

The idiots were half right, though. Shiro could distinctly sense Mephisto's presence behind the door, and a qualified guess was that this had something to do with scarves and horse shit.

What Mephisto had prepared in there was another question: one that Shiro felt he'd be better off not knowing the answer to. He could just walk away and come back later, that was one option; hopefully, Mephisto would find it too boring to wait, and abandon his plan. …on the other hand, he could probably leave a trap if he so wished. And Shiro was almost out of cigarettes, and both his wallet and a new packet were inside his room… Tch, and even if he dodged the bullet this time, Mephisto wouldn't give up until proper revenge had been dealt. He would chase him down no matter how-

A self-ironic smile stretched his lips. Chase him down? Wouldn't be much of a chase, would it? He knew Mephisto was in there; and he was pretty sure Mephisto was able to tell he was standing outside. He'd raced the demon down that corridor once already, and knew which one of them was the faster.

"_Just take it like a man._" He drew in a breath, and turned the han-

*poof*

Whatever he had expected, it wasn't the shower of confetti, glitter, and serpentines bouncing off his head. And amidst it all, a beaming grin and arms spread wide.

"Congratulations on passing _all _of your exams!" Judging from Mephisto's enthusiasm, he himself was the one who had just passed all exams.

"Thanks." When the initial shock had passed, Shiro couldn't help but pull a smile. Enthusiasm is infectious, sure, but in this specific case it was rather a matter of… Mephisto acting his looks. "You look like you enjoy it more than I do", he added, dislodging a red and yellow serpentine from his glasses frame.

"Don't be such a killjoy, Shiro!" he chirped enthusiastically. "Birthdays may lack significance in your dull understanding of life, but surely this is an achievement sensible enough to celebrate?" He offered a courtly bow with one hand on his chest and the other behind his back. "Supper is on me~"

Mephisto paid? That meant it was either a trap, or… uh, was there any other possibility?

"Which means 'supper' is either instant ramen or monja." Mephisto had a very peculiar diet, for a multi-millionaire; especially considering that he had a chef that could cook virtually anything. But, it's the luxury of the rich that they can be as quirky as they wish.

"For an occasion like this?" Thin eyebrows rose in theatrical astonishment. "Tsk tsk, who do you take me for, Shiro? No Esquire has _ever _passed exams for all classes at once, in his first try! This calls for something _special_", he smiled confidently…

…and left it hanging there: a grand, mysterious Pandora's box waiting to unleash dream or dread. Something _special_. Shiro pondered his options, nipping at the tip of his tongue as he did. Mephisto was up to something; the question was what. Curiosity killed the cat, curiosity killed the cat, curiosity ki-

"Anything that isn't a gay bar is fine."

Cats can't subdue curiosity: that's why they have nine lives.

"Gay bar? Of course not." He set his arms akimbo with a look of How Could You Even Conceive Of Such An Idea? "That would be highly inappropriate for a headmaster."

"M-hm: and letting a student get some lollipop love from a succubus isn't?" he returned, quirking an eyebrow at Mephisto as he walked past him and dropped his satchel by his bed.

"That files as extracurricular activity."

"Fuehehehehahahahahaa I think you've outdone yourself, my dear wordsmith!" He got a hold of himself slowly, with the occasional guffawing noise bubbling out of his mouth. "'Extracurricular activity'…!"

"The word is ever mightier than the sword", the demon smirked. "While on the subject, she recommended you to cut back on the cigarettes and eat more fruit." Seeing his nonplussed expression, Mephisto was kind enough to elaborate: "To improve your taste."

…and try as it may, Shiro's brain could not fool him into thinking she had meant his taste in clothes or hairstyle. Feeling the heat rise in his cheeks, he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

"Can we go to that dining place now, please?" he mumbled.

"The subject whet your appetite…?" Mephisto inquired lecherously beneath a thin coating of politeness.

"No, I just hope you're well-bred enough not to talk with your mouth full. Of food." Sadly, the safeguard only served to give away what he had been thinking; and Mephisto's insinuating grin said that he, too, knew what his student had been thinking. "Oh, we're just getting started", Shiro sighed, massaging his eyelids. "You're gonna cough blood from laughing before this evening's over, I'm telling you; I'm so wasted after exams I could get up in the morning and forget my head on the pillow."

"Sounds promising~" Mephisto poofed himself into a casual lavender yukata with white stars, and summoned the ring of master keys into his hand. "I do like the prospect of enjoying your mouth all day long", he smiled, and used the dorm room door to open another door miles and miles away.

"I hear I'm gonna get plenty of help with the Freudian slips, too", Shiro chortled, ran a hand through his pink hair and followed him through.

* * *

They emerged up a short flight of stairs, onto stone-paved floor inlaid with a large compass rose. To the left opened a bustling street, with an austere, dark- wooded Shinto shrine awkwardly crammed in between bright shop windows and brazen logotypes. To the right a shopping arcade stretched into endlessness, with busy people reflecting in polished floors, and conches with artificial cherry blossom twigs on walls that met in a glass arc above. It was warmer, somehow. And it didn't look like anything in True Cross Town. Shiro was about to ask where they were when the sign above saved him from looking like an idiot: Teramachi.

"We're in Kyoto…? I didn't know the Order had affiliates in Kyoto."

"It doesn't, save a small field office mainly for monitoring." Mephisto pointed a horrible Hello Kitty-patterned fan at an assembly of signs on the wall behind them, where organisations and shops that resided in the building were listed.

_Esquire Club_

_since 1964_

"Kyoto is a city of respectable age, a stronghold of culture and tradition", he continued. "Exorcism here has always been managed by independent Japanese institutions, and quite efficiently so: the final battle against the Impure King was fought by Fukaku in the mountains here. A most spectacular showdown, that was." Mephisto twirled the fan between his fingers in remembered delight, and set a leisurely course straight ahead, to the other side of the shopping arcade. "The main body of exorcists in present-day Kyoto are descendants of the sect he founded – very apt at what they do, but tied as tightly to their traditions as the Vatican is to its own. Tradition is a solitary species, with profound dislike for competition; thus, no affiliates of the Order of the True Cross in Kyoto."

"But wouldn't they-" Shiro realised where they were headed; and though his English was something he'd use exclusively under death threat, he could read the name on the blue awning above the door. "I thought I'd made myself clear on the gay bars?"

"You made yourself perfectly clear, and this is an ordinary restaurant: a very hospitable such, with delicious food and reasonable prices."

_Mr. Young Men_ had just recently opened, and, despite the name, it was indeed an ordinary restaurant. An ageing lady with a big birthmark above one eyebrow greeted them politely, and directed them to a vacant table by the window that faced the arcade. It was a small yet homely place, with lamps shaped like seashells on the walls, and paper tissue printed with the restaurant name on each table. A handful of other guests were already seated, engaged in conversation over steaming yakisoba, or… monja.

"Sumimasen; will you be translating the menu for your friend, or would you require help?" Shiro was asked by a frail little waitress, who wore a polite smile to go with her worried eyes.

"No need to worry, milady: I'm fluent in Japanese", Mephisto said, and did something Shiro didn't quite catch. He smiled, but not his usual smirk. And something with his eyes, too. The combined effect caused the waitress' face to light up like a pink glow worm, and she hurriedly cast her eyes down, left them the menus, and scurried back to the rest of the staff behind the counter.

"I saw that – though I'm not sure what 'that' was", Shiro murmured over the table. "What did you do to her?"

Mephisto awarded him his usual, aggravatingly self-satisfied smile as he flipped open the menu.

"It's a noble art, to set a human heart aflutter with a single glance – too bad I can't make use of it, with the Vatican's collar around my neck. Hmm, what shall I have instead…?" His eyes scanned the menu idly, while his right hand twirled the shorter side of the fringe around its index finger. "Young men would be nice… maybe campus men…"

Shiro would have preferred yakisoba, but when Mephisto had pondered his choices aloud in that _insinuating _tone he simply couldn't order _Rich men_, which was the name the beef yakisoba was listed under in the menu. Instead, he ordered…

"So, in the end, we _are _having monja."

"It's not monjayaki: it's okonomiyaki", Mephisto corrected. Something _special_, huh...?

"Which is exactly the same thing", Shiro pointed out, slicing himself some onion-and-beef-jerky pancake with a metal spatula. "It's just the tradition of the Kansai region that has a problem with the tradition of the rest of Japan, and uses another name for it."

"You shouldn't speak ill of the tradition whose home you're guest in, Shiro."

"You mean you never do, Sir I-could-use-the-arcades-in-Saint-Peter's-basilica- as-walk-in-wardrobes…?"

* * *

They both had second helpings of mon- of okonomiyaki, and after they had finished those they spent a fair while just talking. One could spend _weeks_ just talking with Mephisto. Years, probably. Not only did he know something about everything, but he had lived in times when conversation had been elevated to art. Tch, he'd been _Hermes_, for god's sake: the _inventor _of the art of speech and oration. He may have the drawing skill of a three year-old, but his skill in wielding words was on par with Michelangelo's skill at wielding a brush. And above all, Hermes had been a trickster that used his talents for fun.

"Can you take us _anywhere_ in True Cross Town?" Shiro asked when Mephisto paid for the meal. He'd had in Idea, of the kind that curled one's nerves into yarns of expectation, and the more he thought about it the better it seemed. "I think I know a place you'll like."

*poof*

Old memories, in every corner and vacant land lot. They were far down on the lowest levels of True Cross Town, where higher tiers of buildings kept the streets in perpetual twilight. Shiro had often gone there when he was younger – on errands, one might add for the sake of his good reputation.

Out of the mud, the lotus grows towards the light and blooms, like a mind striving for enlightenment – pretty way of putting it, no? Prime example of what Mephisto labelled "euphemism". Shiro had spent more time in the mud than on the glossy surface of True Cross Town: a town whose majestic pinnacles and arcs strove skywards on the tattered shoulders of Old True Cross Town – or Creek's End in street vernacular. Because Creek's End was where all trash washed up eventually; Creek's End was where walls sagged on each other to support their weight, striped an unhealthy green-grey by neglect in daylight that was provided by street lamps.

Shiro took the lead at leisurely pace, walking through neon lit memories from signs with suggestive names such as _Lips _and _Slave_. Make no mistake, Creek's End had good and bad areas, too. This was a district that saw plenty of visitors from upper True Cross Town: like Mephisto, it presented a respectable façade by day and transformed into an amusement park of sin at night.

He took care not to bump into anyone as he walked, knowing that in _this _jungle he was no lion, but a meerkat that would lose its neck if he stuck it out too far. …well, maybe not with the King of Time in tow.

Shiro steered them towards an entrance with a chandelier imitation that looked like a giant jellyfish, without the lights and glitter many other places advertised: the tall, muscular guard at the door didn't do lights and glitter. It was a fancy place, though. Too fancy for Shiro to have gone to, even if he was allowed in.

"…you dabble in illegal gambling?"

…and apparently, Shiro wasn't the only one who knew his way around True Cross Town's decadent districts.

"Pff, as if I'd have spare money to waste on gambling, with the fees your school charges! No – but do the right favours for the right people and 'poof!'" Shiro snapped his fingers. "Doors open." He cocked an eyebrow and shot Mephisto a wolfish grin. "Magic, you know?"

He didn't miss the amused smile that tugged Mephisto's lips as he led the way over to the tattooed doorkeeper, presented his ID, and was permitted to bring his gaijin friend in.

Spaces that aren't supposed to exist in the first place develop a certain atmosphere about them. At first, they're empty: uninhabited Possibilities that stand naked, nervously waiting for a purpose to fill their vacant flats and murky basements. Then purpose moves in, and brings people with it; or is it the people that bring the purpose…? Regardless, it's the people that bring the atmosphere. It's the people that bring with them the awareness that the place is forbidden, and paint the walls with their suppressed fears of being found. Eventually, it has soaked into the structure to the point you feel it the moment you enter: a tiptoeing, static convulsion, born from the knowledge that, any minute, this outlawed nook of the world could be discovered and destroyed, and the people discovered there destroyed with it.

It wouldn't be, though. Gambling pits like this one were protected by silent agreements passed in envelopes under official desks, and among the well-dressed men around the tables were no doubt both policemen and politicians. The basement had been furnished to fit the company, with pipes and cables concealed behind lavish painted screens and mirror walls. Glamorous. Bending laws and making it glamorous: oh yes, Mephisto would like it there.

Dark, varnished gambling tables drifted in pools of light from low-hung lamps: little islands shrouded in cigarette smoke of finer brand than what Shiro was used to. Men of all ages and social status gathered together to cheer or groan at the clatter of dice, the muffled flipping of cards, or the swift-swept clicks of mahjong tiles. The noises blended in discretely with the melodies of ABBA's latest hits, which came pouring from speakers on a polished bar counter that hugged tapestries of glistening glass bottles to itself in the far corner. Breathtaking women in scant clothing filed back and forth from it with drinks, smiled their prettiest smiles and kept the gamblers company.

There was a certain atmosphere about the place, yes: a pungent blend of forbidden adventure, danger, daring, and delight.

"Come now: am I gonna have to tempt a demon to gamble?" Surprisingly, Mephisto seemed to require a bit of encouragement, and Shiro served it up with his cheekiest grin. "You know what the Court at Headquarters would say of that."

"Charge you for 'inappropriate corruption of demon' is probably what they would do", Mephisto sniggered merrily. "What a splendid role model you make, Shiro; the exorcist that tempts demons into sinning!"

"Fwahahahaa one of my many extracurricular activities…!"

He could only imagine how they looked: one European rake in purple yukata, and one teenaged Japanese with bubblegum pink hair; laughing together like idiots. Heh, but looks are deceptive. Wonder what people would say, if they knew the two newcomers were the King of Time and one of the most promising exorcist students in Japan…?

* * *

_Klondike_ was basically like playing poker, but with dice. It was a game the Americans had brought with them during the occupation, and left behind along with other souvenirs; such as a few hundred half-American bastard children. Officials and private persons alike agreed to pretend that those children didn't exist – much like they agreed to ignore the existence of gambling pits.

_Klondike_ was played so that the banker – in their case a man with sharp eyes and teeth like a palisade of smoke-stained sotoba – rolled five dice, and the players then took turns rolling five other dice to beat the banker's combination. You could bet either 'win', which meant you aimed to roll higher than the bank, or 'lose', which meant you aimed to roll lower; or 'beat two aces', which meant you would have to pull off rolling at least two pairs.

Didn't sound that difficult, did it?

"I thought you liked games of chance?" Shiro asked, watching with fascination as Mephisto's ears dipped lower by the minute.

"This isn't Chance", he said irritably. "This is Hazard, her drunk cousin."

The bank had rolled one of the lowest possible combinations, and Mephisto had bet 'win': and for the sixth time in a row, he'd rolled the same number as the bank, which meant the bank won. The other players around the table were highly amazed – not to mention amused – by this; and any moment now, the amassed improbabilities would reach critical concentration and open up a black hole that swallowed Assiah.

"Do you know why they say one can have 'the devil's own luck'?" Mephisto muttered under his breath when the next man rolled. "Because that's what it is. Demons can't make use of luck themselves, only sell it off to humans."

He was being baited, and Mephisto wasn't even bothering to hide it. He knew what directions Shiro's mind would start ticking with those words; and Shiro knew that he knew, and knew he should make an effort _not_ to fall for demons' temptations... And yet, the night was young and the music good, the clatter of dice and mahjong tiles drew cheers and groans into the smoky air, and Shiro was nineteen years old and invincible.

"Then throw some luck my way and I'll play for you", he offered, muffling his words behind his hand as he pretended to scratch nonexistent beard. "We split the money at the end of the game. What do you say?"

"I say the game is on. What will you give me in return?"

Shiro glanced up at the tall demon one extra time. Nope, he was serious. When it came to money, he was always serious.

"You get half the money: just how greedy are you?"

"Very, but that's not the point. Demons deal in countless currencies, but man-made money isn't one of them."

Shiro tilted his head to the side.

"That's weird."

"That's fair", the demon corrected in pleasant tones. "Rich or poor, every soul can afford to deal with us."

"Right…" Shiro let his gaze wander with his thoughts, as if a solution was hidden somewhere in the room. Or somewhere in the far corner…? "Drinks on me afterwards – is that acceptable currency?"

"You're underage, Shiro."

"And I'm in an illegal gambling pit."

"Can't argue with that: agreed, then."

The devil's own luck, indeed. Shiro had to discreetly ask Mephisto to give him at least a few bad rolls, for the banker's stiff sotoba-smile was becoming more and more reminiscent of a grave-marker. As good as it felt to watch yen notes build up in piles, he would like to walk out of the gambling pit with all his fingers attached.

* * *

"Kampai!" They raised their saké cups again, and Shiro could swear the only reason Mephisto didn't spill any was that he controlled space.

As the number of emptied flasks on the polished wooden counter grew higher, so did their laughter. Mephisto proved to have a sensationally poor tolerance for liquor, and it wasn't long before the alcohol had added a fine dusting of pink to his cheeks, and dimmed his green eyes from clear absinthe to dark spruce. It also made him prone to severe fits of giggling, which infallibly set Shiro off laughing as it was the funniest thing he had ever seen.

"Really, you hold your liquor like a girl", he snickered. "Act like one, too."

At this, Mephisto pulled an affronted face.

"Flirting with the bartender doesn't make me a girl, Shiro."

"No; that makes you promiscuous, and him discomforted. _This_", he mimicked adjusting a tress of hair with an overly effeminate motion, "makes you a girl."

The affronted look grew more prominent; as did the bartender's discomfort.

"I don't do that", Mephisto dismissed delicately.

"Oh yes you do."

Shiro always had his best ideas when he was tired or tipsy: at the moment he was both, and he had an absolutely brilliant idea.

He licked his finger and coiled a strand of hair on top of his head around it, straightened his back and crossed his legs – no chance in hell that hair stayed curled, but it's the effort that counts. He then softened his voice and did a, in his mind, perfect imitation of Mephisto's cadence:

"Why, how could you ever claim that _I_", he puffed up his chest against his splayed fingers, "would deign to do something so mundane? Clearly, you don't understand the _art _of flipping one's hair." He put all his heart into making the wrist-flick as faggish as it looked when Mephisto did it. "It should be quick and quaint like the flicking of a wagtail's feathers, yet smooth and soft like a pure maiden's first velvet kiss on a cream-bathed baby butt." Big, flourishing gestures; like he wasn't trying to swat away flies but rather caress their backs gently. "Performed correctly, this ancient art has the power to conquer kingdoms and enslave emperors, steal the tongues of men and elevate the user into exceptional good-lookingness! It is what separates the prince from the pauper and the snob from the salary man; and I, His Royal Foppishness, is a mas-sehehehe a master of- of the noble art…!" he choked out before he surrendered himself to idiotic laughter.

"Kyahahahahahaaaahahahhaaaa…!" Yep, his royal foppishness lay next to him, flattened over the bar counter in hiccupping convulsions with his face buried in his arm. Shiro's impersonation must've looked absolutely ridiculous – and pretty accurate. "You'll- you'll have to t-ehehehihiiihihi teach me the proper art of flipping one's hair someday…! Nhnheheheeheehe-heeh-heeh… eheh the gauntlet's thrown down, then, fufufufu lend me those…"

Deft fingers plucked off Shiro's glasses and transferred them, with some difficulty between the string and the curl, to Mephisto's nose. He let his legs fall apart sloppily and slouched against the counter on one elbow; and for the final touch, he ran his fingers through his hair a couple of times.

"Oi, what's with that face?" _Pitch-perfect_ intonation, oh god, oh god…! "Having pervy thoughts about me again, I bet. Lecherous old goat…" he muttered – and he even adjusted the _glasses _the way Shiro did; thumb and middle finger gripping the frames, with the forefinger curled in to maintain the grip on his pencil when he studied…! "Quit laughing or I'll stick this up your nose", he threatened, wagging a martini toothpick between his fingers the way Shiro would've wagged a cigarette.

"That's the best thi-hihihihi best thing I've seen in- in my life…!" he wheezed, wiping tears with the back of his hand. Holy crap: so wrong, so wrong – and so right…! "Why don't you do impersonations more often? You're good!"

"Good? I'm _outstanding!_" Yes, yes; and looking perfectly mad with that huge smirk and his hair tossed by a hurricane. "I once tricked the Emperor of Constantinople into thinking I was Mohammed! Oh, _that_ was a show, you should've seen…!" And while Mephisto returned the glasses and combed his hair back to its proper fag- fashionable style, he related in vivid detail how he had posed as the Muslim prophet in the Ottoman Emperor's hall; and how Johann, disguised as the same prophet, had subsequently had the busiest night in his life in Emperor's harem.

…and it only got better when he used the comb to demonstrate sleight-of-hand tricks that really weren't tricks; and then his cravat scarf came out of the bartender's beer tap when he tried to pour a customer a glass.

"Shit, man, I don't know why you're principal at all – you should do performances, either at the Ottoman court or at kiddies' birthday parties", Shiro wheezed into his drink, sore and giddy with laughter. "Damn, if I could do the stuff you can do… I had this one trick I used to do, with a cup and some pebbles or coins." Pity he'd gotten the prize money all in notes. "Got any coins on ya?"

No, just 2000-yen notes. His reason for that? They were more "interesting" than other yen notes. The only interesting thing Shiro could see in that was that Mephisto's space-bent wallet contained enough 2000-yen notes to stuff himself a king-sized mattress – and a second unicorn plushie.

"Will these do?" Mephisto inquired, holding out-

"Wha-? You stole them off the Klondike table, you madman? What if somebody sees and thinks we cheated?"

"I borrowed them. Don't worry, Shiro: everyone's busy with their own wins and losses", Mephisto dismissed with a dainty wagging of his wrist. "And he won't look this way if he can help it~" he added and sent a suggestive wink at the bartender, who was very busy with polishing already spotless martini glasses.

"Alright, so, you take this", he handed Mephisto his emptied saké cup and got the five dice in return, "and you hold it wherever you like, and I'm gonna toss the dice into it."

It was the simplest game ever invented. Simple, because anyone could do it: getting _good _at it, however, wasn't something just anyone did.

The red and white die clinked flawlessly into the cup in Mephisto's outstretched hand… on top of his head… drifting above the row of Korean soju flasks…

"You move that cup when I throw and I _will_ shove a toothpick up your nose", Shiro enlightened when the cup hovered behind the ear of a yakuza member that had his back to them. "Sideways." He rolled the die between his fingers, feeling the weight and the angles and the smooth surface as he blinked the alcohol-fog away and focused on the ceramic cup. He could never really explain how he did it, except in vague terms of "gut feeling" and "instinct": but when he focused on a target, he hit it.

*clink*

The well-dressed yakuza member turned sharply at the sound, but the cup and die had already disappeared and reappeared in Mephisto's hand.

"No nerves missing there", he grinned and plucked out the die. "One to go, yes…?"

"Oh come on…" As if it was physically possible to hit the cup when it was held upside down!

"What's this? You think the Great Prophet in all his glory can't perform miracles…?" he grinned with a hazy-eyed wink.

"A miracle like getting me into an Oriental harem overnight?" Nah, Mephisto wouldn't do that without payment – besides, Shiro had a certain someone to be faithful to…

"That kind of miracle would cost more than drinks, little lion~" the demon smirked, and wagged a clawed finger at him. "But~ if you're willing to pay…"

"Not with that look on your face", Shiro grinned, and tried to focus on the cup.

…being tipsy helped, actually. Normally he wouldn't have been able to twist his brain into accepting that he was aiming to toss into an upturned cup.

*clink*

They went at it one more round, but no matter how Mephisto held the cup he didn't miss the mark.

"Such a waste of youth; didn't you have anything better to do all day than toss pebbles…?" Eventually, he surrendered the saké cup to the wooden counter.

"Not really." Shiro poured himself another drink, glanced at the forest of bottles, and decided that the bill would look the same whether he counted them or not. "I mean, of all the things _did _do, tossing pebbles must've ranked high on the Constructiveness list. The rest was pretty much destructive, one way or the other. Apart form cooking."

"You cook?"

"What's with that face? You of all people have no right to be surprised somebody can cook", he remarked defensively.

"Hmm~ I thought you were a feral cat, but it seems you have some domestic qualities after all." Green eyes glimmered impishly over the rim of the saké cup. "How cute~"

…yes, it was worse than when Kasumi said it. Much worse.

"More domestic qualities than you've got, pampered prince and all", he returned, jumping at the opportunity to switch the focus of the conversation. "What did you do when you grew up, then?"

Shiro could see the question totter sideways, double back, and run through the demon's fuzzy mind a second time.

"That was very long ago." Too long to linger in memory, judging by the way he scowled at his saké cup. "I recall helping to rear my brothers…" His scowl broke into sudden, hearty laughter that surprised both Shiro and Mephisto himself. "And I remember when I was horning! Dear me, that was a pain. Had to smear my head with hydra blood to soothe the blisters."

Shiro stared blankly at him, running the words over in his head one more time.

"You remember when you were horny, and you got blisters from overdoing it…?"

Not that he doubted Mephisto had the stamina for that, but judging by how the demon cracked up that wasn't what he had said.

"Fueheheheheee~ what _is_ that; a reverse Freudian slip?! _Hearing_ what's in your subconscious instead of speaking it?!"

"I told you I was tired!" he laughed, helplessly holding out his hands before him. "My brain doesn't work properly, okay? What _did_ you say?"

"I said _horning_", Mephisto wheezed, cheeks glowing pink both from alcohol and from mirth. "It's like teething, but with horns, and a lot more annoying. It itches constantly, and it's nigh impossible to sleep if your turn your head a lot."

When Shiro had re-run that by his alcohol-fogged brain, and gotten the mail to the right address, so to speak, he took an extra close look at Mephisto.

"You've got horns…?"

"Who ever heard of a prince without crown?" he declaimed with that kind of wrist-flourish Shiro wished he'd included in his impersonation. "I have horns; I just don't let them show. They tend to make the clergy rather jumpy – not to mention they limit the selection of hats remarkably."

"Admit it: that last thing was the greatest concern for you wahahahaha...!"

And Mephisto proceeded with telling the most _outrageous_ stories of what you could experience as the eldest of seven brothers – sweet gods, the Kings of Gehenna were something _vastly _different from what the cram school course literature made them out to be…!

Shiro, in turn, told a few stories from the orphanage, but more of what he'd done and heard on the streets of True Cross Town as a young teenager. …and somewhere along the way, they ended up discussing whether or not _The Sound of Music_ would look better if a Takarazuka troupe did it. Since they couldn't stay on topic anyway, Shiro decided to see if alcohol was as good for smelting Mephisto's silver tongue as the heat of passion.

"Y'know, I couldn't help but think, since we talked about it the other day: the sects 'round here are good at what they do – is it 'cause of that artefact they inherited? Fukaku's flaming sword?"

"It's for worship nowadays, not for doing battle", Mephisto replied with a grin: he had now successfully conditioned the bartender into taking long detours around their part of the counter, and seemed to enjoy that almost as much as he would've enjoyed bending him over it.

"Isn't that one big waste of weaponry? I mean, that thing… it's gotta be among the most powerful artefacts in the world?" And wouldn't Mephisto much rather have it in his collection in Deep Keep?

But to his surprise, Mephisto's reply came with a laughing attack.

"Kukukuku – that? No one wants that old toothpick; even the Myou Dharani keeps it for sentimental reasons. It's *hic* empty."

"Empty?"

"Empty: poof~" Mephisto wiggled his fingers in front of him and tittered like a demented grade school girl. "It's a plain sword, nothing more; fine craftsmanship, certainly, but no more powerful than any other sharp pi-*hic* piece of metal. The demon that was sealed in the blade left it after the battle – but ssshhh!" he hushed, a finger cleaving his crescent smile in two. "The Myou Dharani would be _terribly_ sad if they found out."

"So you're gonna let them worship an empty relic instead?" More fun for him that way, probably…

"Shiro, Shiro: humanity must be allowed to worship empty relics~ Truth holds no comfort for the lost and lonely: Faith does", he said with all the conviction three flasks of saké gives. "An' like Cordoban fighting dogs, the two can't coexschischt without one slaying the other."

True. Harsh. Truth is harsh – ooh, that sounded so sensible, even when he was intoxicated.

"I think I'd rather have truth than blind belief in empty symbols", he pondered, wiggling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. "Don't gemme wrong: I get the need for hope. I just think that hope… hope fe' something with no possibility of becoming real isn't any good hope to hold on to. It'll crush ya completely when you realise it was just a dream. Like when you snap Midori-chan's kitsune illusions." She'd been awesome during their Esquire exam, really shown the power of the mind and the power of belief – and how hard it hits the mind when belief is shattered.

"Such big words~" Mephisto anchored his hazy green eyes in Shiro's and levelled his index finger at him with a sly grin. "Lemme ask you, then, young philosopher: what is truth?"

"Not your riddles again – I'm drunk, I can't think", he huffed through a smile, and looked down in his cup instead. How many cups had that been now…? He'd feel it once he rose, for sure.

"Now that's a straight-out lie, my friend; and you just said you'd rather have truth", the demon teased. "But~ that would require you to know what truth _is_."

"Truth's truth", he tossed out carelessly. "And if it isn't true, it's false. One or the other. My cup's white." He raised his saké cup in a toast and drained the last drops. "That's truth."

"Is it, really?" Mephisto questioned with a swaying smirk that knew better. He may be drunk as a skunk, but in the dim lighting his eyes gave off that faint green glow as a reminder that, even when drunk, he was a demigod; and would always know better. "To me it's slightly violet, 'cause my eyes can distinguish a wider spectrum of electrosta- electromagnetic waves than yours." He tilted his head to the side. "There are various eyes, and as a result there's various truths; and at the faaaar~ edge of that reasoning, there is no truth – and that's the only truth!" he giggled happily, spreading the conclusion wide in his arms and almost knocking down their flasks. "Splendid, innit?"

"Truth looks different to everybody… so... truth is what we agree upon to be true", Shiro re-defined, and felt like he might be able to grasp the full meaning of the idea when he was a bit more sober. "Wow. I think my head's spinning just from trying to understand what I just said."

"Nonetheless well spoken, Shiro", the demon slurred, and toasted to it. "In vino veritas, as the Roma-*hic* the Romans said. One's subjective truth, at least", he added, and made the flask pour him a new fill when the bartender wasn't looking. "What'cha hold for true is what a majority of eyes have agreed to see, and human eyes are easily deceived – not necessarily by demons, either." Funny thing, that; with every cup downed, his speech became more prominently accented with German. Or it could be that with every cup downed, Shiro began to hear more and more like a German…? "The Vatican's hopeless in that. Loves to monopolize truth, be it about demons, humans or angels. The state of the soul in particular – oh, they like to think they know all about that; salvation an' res'rrection an' afterlife, all part of Faith elevated to Truth by authority of men sworn to serve without question", he smirked, his grand gestures threatening their collection of saké flasks and cadence tipping into the lilt of ironic amusement. "And thus, when Christ makes a dead man rise again izza miracle; when a demon does the same it's hereschy. No sense pointing out the incongruity to 'em, either: the only abscholute truth in these matters is that religion has no sense of humour."

"Well, we're just humans: can't expect us to be as fair and open-minded as certain demons, can ya?"

"Do I hear you slandering my good name, Shiro…?" he chortled, and very nearly missed his mouth when he drank.

"What good name, Sammy?" he snickered in drunken delight. "So you brought someone back, then? Like, you actually returned a soul to-?"

"No, no, there's no way of returning _that_. Not that I know of, anyway. Nevertheless, a human can be brought back without soul." He sloshed the saké around in the cup, gaze far away beyond the liquor cabinet. "But not the same as he was in life."

Everyone knows what a revelation is. Few get to experience what one feels like: but when they do, they know. Because for a split second you relive eternity, and watch the world fall apart and be reborn all at once.

Human eyes are easily deceived, seeing three dimensions of a world that has so many more. Beneath the surface hides an underlying structure, a skeleton of interweaving strings of cause and effect that stretch through time and space in infinity; the connecting weft that binds together all the constituents of the world.

And Mephisto's words set those strings trembling.

"_I see it…!_" The connections, the underlying structure; he could see it, see the vibration that sped like lightning through the weft, connected dot to dot faster than his mind could follow and painted a pattern that had been there, had been there _all the time _and he hadn't _seen _it, hadn't seen it until that one sentence had bridged the gaps between islands of pointless information and bound them together with meaning! Breathless epiphany carried him to soaring heights, through fog and illusion and into brightness: up through the mud, to bloom in the light of clarity…!

"_You don't need alchemy when you've got magic._" He hadn't understood back then; hadn't seen the connections, hadn't seen pattern…! "_You wouldn't need alchemy if you could turn back time for the dead._" So brilliant, so clear, so- "_But you can't._" …hollow. Empty. Forlorn. …and silently… the light of epiphany shrivelled… and dimmed. "_You can't bring them back._" Shiro stared transfixed through the demon, through time, through connections cut and lost… "_You can't bring him back…_" Four hundred years ago, Johann Faust had died; on time, as outlined in his contract. "_But you wanted to._" The hollow feeling twisted in his chest. "_You tried._" …and four hundred years ago, a man claiming the name Johann Faust had immersed himself in the hunt for a way to resurrect the dead. "_Mephisto… did you…?_"

There are some things you just don't do. There are things, very special things, that even cats as curious as Shiro Fujimoto do not pry into. Not because he didn't want to, but because… he didn't have a right to. Those lines and dots – lines and dots he was never meant to connect – had revealed a pattern that quivered softly in his consciousness, frail as a shadow in the mists of memory; a pattern that formed a seal of confidence that told him without words that this… this was not to be touched.

Shiro turned away, cast his gaze into his cup as if ashamed of what he had seen. The reflection returned the look quietly, and from the depths of the saké that squirming hollowness inside summoned up a memory long forgotten.

* * *

_There's a special smell in subways. It's the smell of underground and moving metal, plastic linings and smooth hydraulics blended expertly by the gushing breath of carts pushed through tight-fit tunnels. The people are different, too. They're always moving. Always in transit, headed for a destination. The subway is a world unto its own where nobody belongs, where nothing transpires. It's a place in between places whose sole purpose is to connect, and like the winding tunnels of an ant colony it takes workers to their work and back again. Although, for him, the politely quiet subway carts had been his place of work._

_Pick-pocketing was something Shiro had taken up for the money, but also for the thrills. There was something primal to it that set his senses pleasantly on edge to focus both on his intended victim and on the surrounding passengers. Like hunting. Hunting and knowing that one wrong move would make you the hunted._

_There had been that one time, once when he'd passed through the mechanical arms and shuffled down the concrete stairs on one of the town's ground-level_ _stations. The wallet in his jacket pocket was a nondescript black one in leather, lifted off a bespectacled man that seemed so lost in thought he wouldn't have_ _noticed if someone stole the shoes off his feet. Easy target._

_He'd seated himself on the rain-wet swing on a forlorn playground and counted the yen notes – the guy had had enough of them to make it a long and_ _pleasant count._

_Between two crumpled 1000-yen notes his fingers had met with different texture. Paper. Pale purple letter-paper with colourful flowers and a little ladybug_ _holding up a heart, folded together over handwriting that wanted to look its finest._

_"Hi daddy! I have read all the books now. I liked 'Kimba the White Lion' best. The doctors said I should rest today. They didn't let me take a walk, so I write to you instead. I like nurse Nanase-san, she is a nice person…"_

_And Shiro had turned his eyes away from the letter, away from the little girl that lay in a hospital bed with leukaemia and no prospect of ever leaving it. He'd had no right to see that. He'd had no right to intrude on something so private, something so… fragile._

_She had sought his eyes again, from the small photo that had fallen into the brown sand. Clear, smiling eyes, too big for her gaunt little face. He couldn't tell her age; it hid too well in the shadows cast by accented bones, but she wasn't old. Not as old as she looked. So pale, so thin…_

_Fragile._

_He'd gone through painstaking page flipping in phonebooks to find the address that fit the name on the driver's license. He'd narrowed it down using the area that subway line covered, and at long last pushed the wallet – money, letter and all – into the apartment's mailbox._

* * *

"And you say I can't hold my l-*hic*-quor, spacing out like that?"…and outside his mind, the world kept to its usual tracks in its usual pace, oblivious that a revelation had touched earth.

"I can hold my liquor, just not my manners", he replied with ease. "Uncivilized monkey an' all that. You should be glad I'm just spacing out and not stealing your hairclips."

Fragile things break easily if the wrong eyes touch them: and for that reason, Shiro was prepared to pretend that his never had.

"…I'm not wearing any hairclips", Mephisto recalled, brow crinkled with thought.

"Well… then I must've already stolen them, right? Who's drunk an' spacing out then, eh?" And though he probably failed, Shiro made a good effort at smugging his befuddled friend back.

Winning a battle of words against a demon should be easier if the demon in question is plastered, right?

Wrong. Alcohol did nothing to blunt Mephisto's sharp mind; just derailed it and sent it skipping from track to track without _any _chance of following.

"The point is… dolphins", Mephisto concluded – without any previous reasoning, sure, but nonetheless he made his point sound very convincing. "Dolphins are really smart. They went from being pigs to being dolphins *hic* because they were smart enough to know dolphins get more appreciation for their smartness than pigs. If you were as smart as you think, you'd turn into a dolphin."

"Wahahaha-hah-wh- what…?!" No, he didn't know if he was laughing or just exhaling rapidly because his brain overheated when it tried to make sense of that. "Just what the fuck 're ya trying to say…?"

"See?" Mephisto grinned, drunk and content and well underway to fall asleep against the bar counter. "If you were a dolph-*hic* a dolphin, you'd get it right away."

And since he wasn't, he abandoned any hope of getting Mephisto's point and went along with the madness. He found it worked out surprisingly well.

* * *

"We gotta do this again sometime", Shiro concluded firmly a while later, although the bar stool didn't feel all that firm and steady beneath him. "An' I want that entrance you did, too, back at the dorm." Just the thought of it made him shake with laughter. "An' toss in the fireworks from Hyakki Yagyou too while ye're at it. Confetti and serpentines and pink goddamn clouds – hell, the only thing missing was doves flying out of your hat."

"You'd want that?" Mephisto hiccupped with a fuzzy grin.

"You can do that?"

"Of course I can."

"What'cha waiting for, then? Let's see a miracle, O Great Prophet!"

Mephisto spread his arms and nodded his head in a jester's bow; and out of the sleeves of his yukata flew dozens of white doves.

Doves really don't like people chasing them. This is truly fascinating, since people don't like being chased by doves either. One would think this should result in a relation of deep, mutual understanding, but humanity's record in that department isn't very flattering.

What else is truly fascinating is pigs: the ones that stayed on land and actually became pigs, rather than join their cousins that opted for dolphinism. One must truly contemplate what might have lain behind such a decision, and that, curiously enough, leads back to doves: doves, like dolphins, are intelligent creatures. Doves, like dolphins, have evolved from once land-bound animals. Pigs, who evidently are intelligent, are then merely the evolutionary stadium between dolphin and dove, and the pigs of today just haven't decided which they would prefer to be yet. Because apparently, pigs that had made up their minds could learn to fly: although not very well, compared to doves.

"You summoned a flying pig…?!" Shiro laughed so hard he could barely breathe.

The searchlight of swinging lamp screens drove the birds into a frenzy, and flashed over a cacophony of shouting people, glass crunching under expensive shoes, cards and tiles gushing off from liquor-soaked tables, and jackets flailing in the air as people knocked each other over trying to capture the doves – and, more importantly, the winged piglet.

"Thought I might as well!" Mephisto shouted above the ruckus with an unsober giggle jumping hopscotch over his words. "It's a schpecial occasion after all!"

Special indeed: people were trampling each other to catch the impossible animal and make themselves a fortune off it – and among the elbows hid yakuza members with knives and greedy eyes.

"Oi, think we should leave?" Nobody paid them any attention right now, but once the doves and the pig were caught, someone would probably pay them attention of the wrong kind.

"Nobody suspects a devil in their midst fufufu – and neither will they miss him…!"

* * *

The sliver of sky above the blinking neon signs had gone black, and tucked itself into all the alleyways that branched off the one they wobbled ahead on. Cars slunk in and out of streets like lantern-eyed predators, and hotels along the way tastefully advertised one price per night and one price per "rest".

Shiro was sober enough to feel a twinge of worry for what might happen if demons decided to make an attempt at possessing him under these conditions, and made an effort to sober up a bit more just in case. There were plenty of coal tars there, and not so few greater demons, either: but none seemed to take any interest in them. Of course. Just like at Hyakki Yagyou, no one dared touch Prince Samael's toy boy. Shiro wasn't _that _drunk, though. Sure, he was a bit unsteady on his feet, but only when the sidewalk tried to trip him. _Mephisto_, on the other hand, was-

"Carry meeee~"

-whiny.

"You're a grown demon, Sammy: act your age, would ya?"

"But I'm sleepy, Shiroooo~"

…he was adorable when he was drunk. Shiro couldn't help thinking it, no more than he could stop laughing at the sight of the most miserable demon he'd ever seen. Mephisto's normally so refined poise became most entertaining when it had marinated in alcohol, and when he still _tried _to assume his usual, confident strut he teetered into Shiro like a poorly anchored flagpole.

"I can't carry you: you're too big, an' I'm too drunk. I'd drop us both off a bridge or something." Nevertheless, he slung an arm around Mephisto's waist to steady him.

"You're too pragmatic", the demon decided, and dumped an arm over his shoulders with a hiccup that rattled the ribs under Shiro's hand. "No fun to be had in pragmatism, all focused on result. 'tis by far one o' the better options, however", he soliloquized to himself. "Takes a certain type of mind to see the world for what it is and still have the imagination to craft solutions from whatever material 's available. Pragmatic's a rather- *hic* a rather good thing to be." They narrowly avoided knocking down an unusually ugly lion sculpture outside a shabby hotel lobby. "Although you can be an idiot at times."

"Pff, no kidding. Sometimes bein' an idiot 's a good thing, though." Like when you try to get arrogant Yaonarus to spill the beans.

There was a silence in place of the amused retort he had expected. A rather peculiar silence, coming from Mephisto. A car horn bleated in the distance, and a flock of pigeons hurriedly abandoned their cable when they walked past below it: and Mephisto remained si-

"Only an idiot would've saved Satan's son", he said. "I'm not an idiot, however, so I can't- *hic* can't follow what went through your mind when you did." Oh, but he was curious, so _damn _curious – it took a few drinks before he caved to the urge, but he _had _to know. "What motivates a human to do something so incredibly *hic* schtupid?"

That…

"I haven't thought about that", he answered frankly.

It lies in a pragmatic nature to find practical solutions to problems, and once a problem is solved it sees no need to dwell on theoretical analysis of how it was done. But what does motivate a human to do something like that? To put his life on the line for another, even when this other turns out to be Satan's son?

"_Meh, that's just a title. A real stupid one._" As if lineage determined anything about you – seriously, even when he was drunk it sounded stupid. "_Evil is of the heart, not of blood or breed._"

Both Midori and Sen said that. They would know, wouldn't they? Tch, but to claim a Prince of Gehenna had goodness in his heart was laughable, in both dimensions. And still… that piercing moment of clarity in the bar…

"_It wasn't the saké getting to my head_", Shiro told himself firmly. "_He has Johann's body, he researched artificial life. I heard him say those words. I heard _how _he said them._"

Could've been deception. Could've been a lure to make him see the demon in a more favourable light – wasn't that what demons did?

"_He wouldn't need to lay the bait four hundred years in advance to pull something like that._"

But if it wasn't deceit, the alternative… no, that was unheard of… that must be the alcohol, surely… Demons didn't know emotion. Not the way humans did. They could put on a display of shallow imitation, sure. They were experts in reading emotion and forging it, feigning friendliness and using it to achieve their ends, but they didn't actually-

"_What am I gonna trust: textbooks or my own eyes?_" he snorted, blowing away a docile coal tar in the process.

He could tell what a Futotsuki must feel: the Order taught one thing, but his experience said another. The Order had thousands of years of experience and study behind its claims, and armies of exorcists that fought and taught by that knowledge: Shiro was a single teenage guy, with one year as Page and Esquire beneath his belt. He had what to back his ideas? A blinding moment of insight at the bottom of a saké flask? Fucking ridiculous, that's what it was…

"_Then let it be fucking ridiculous_", he snapped at his irritatingly rational thoughts. "_Screw what the Order says –_ _I saw what I saw._" Yeah, an idiot. That stubborn kind of idiot that trusted his own mind and would've gotten himself stoned for heresy if he'd lived a few centuries earlier. So what? He may be less than fly shit in the Order's documents, but the things he had seen had- "Ow, what's that for?!" Mephisto flicked the cross on his glasses string again. "Hey!"

"Some company you make, schtaring into empty space like that." And what company did _he _make, whining about getting carried? "Leaving questions unanswered, too."

"Like you don't do that always", he huffed.

"Avoiding the question now? My my, couldn't be that you did it be- *hic* because you like me~?"

"Now you're just full of yourself."

"Fufufu I think I hit the ma-aark~" he sang happily, and almost missed a step in the winding stairway upwards.

"Oh for the love of- I don't _know_ why I did it, okay?"

"Don't know, just rushed headlesschly into battle? How m'I ever gonna trust you with missions?"

"How're you gonna trust me at all, you mean?" Shiro effectively ended the discussion by rubbing his fingertips into Mephisto's side, causing him to giggle and jerk away. Problem and practical solution: as to be expected of a pragmatist…

* * *

An indeterminable amount of time later, Shiro was supporting himself on Mephisto as much as Mephisto was supported by Shiro. Neither could recall exactly what had brought them into that bar, but Shiro had a vague idea that they had left it because the owner didn't appreciate a knothole in his counter pouring infinite amounts of wine over his floor.

"Es ist mir egal, if I fall over a bridge; carry me einfach…" Mephisto whined.

…yeah, Shiro didn't speak German. Normally. However, with a certain amount of saké and bourbon in the system, everyone speaks German.

"Shouldn't you… can't you just, ya know…" He snapped his fingers sloppily. "Poof us home?" He was almost carrying Mephisto already, and didn't feel confident he could do that all the way to the Academy without getting them both run over by a car. Mephisto would live through it, of course. Might get even whinier because of it, but other than that he would be fine. Shiro himself felt that his body was put through enough shit as it was.

"What a good idea – eins, zschwei, drei!"

*poof*

Oh god, oh _god…_!

Shiro shoved himself away from Mephisto and heaved his stomach contents out.

"Fuck, I hate travelling like that", he gurgled between spitting and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Erh, it stank, holy _hell_ it stank… "Shouldn't there be schome… some regulations on that…?" He tottered unsteadily as he put some distance between himself and the puke. "Like… demon laws? Don't drink an' do magic?"

"Sounds überraschend sens'ble, coming fr-*hic* from you, Shiro." Mephisto was trying very, very hard to focus on him, and it was only going so-so. "Am I drunk…?"

Shiro cracked up laughing in the midst of spitting, and very nearly choked on his own saliva.

"You're drunk", he confirmed with a grin smeared over his whole face. "An' you're especially adorable with ya' cravat tied 'round yer… yer curly-whirly-thingy", he snickered, tracing spirals in the air with his forefinger.

Mephisto fumbled for it, caught the end of the scarf and pulled-

"_Pffrrkwahahaha it's- it's wobbling! Nhnhnhnhhahahaaha like a windscreen wiper!_" Shiro couldn't talk, he had enough to do with staying on his feet when he laughed.

"I tried to make a bow…" How wonderfully confused he looked, as if he wasn't quite sure he had been wearing the garment in his hand… "My schpatial thinking might be a bit… muddled."

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so", Shiro agreed sagely. "We're in a rice field." And couldn't hold it together any longer. He clutched the lavender yukata for support, and laughed tears into Mephisto's shoulder. "We're in a fucki-hihihihihahahahahaa we're- we're in a fucking _rice field_…!" And he was soaked up to his shins, and there was puke in the water, and the sun was rising at the horizon, and- "Just how mh-mhmhehehehehaha just how muddled _is _your space thinking…?!"

Mephisto broke down in giggles – unrestrained, ribcage-shaking giggles that had such a- such a _girly _sound to them that Shiro felt his laughs deal muscle damage to his abdomen. And for a while they could only stand there, laughing and swaying together in the water, and feeling utterly, perfectly silly.

"Best- best out of three…?" Mephisto wheezed under his breath, and raised his fingers.

Yeah. Yeah, fire ahead: best out of-

"Eins…"

Oh, that was one tempting teacup to tamper with…

"Zschwei…"

Common sense – what common sense?

"Mepphy Land."

"Drei!"

*poof*

Oh yes: when the smoke dissipated and his head reconnected to his body, they were standing at the cotton candy booth in Mepphy Land, and the morning sun had just kissed the highest peaks of _Go To Hell _with gold.

"Really can't think straight, can ya…?" Shiro slurred through a chuckle, thankful that he had already thrown up.

"*hic* Not of that disposition, m'afraid… Third time's the charm, then: eins, zwei-"

"Gingerbread", he randomized.

"Drei!"

*poof*

And there went Mephisto; lost and gone in favour of the largest gingerbread house Shiro had ever seen. It was like a real house. The roof sported a colourful tiling of giant lens-shaped candies beneath a coating of powdered sugar that looked just like real snow – and look at the handiwork on those frilly icing lace curtains…

Shiro wobbled around the corner and knocked on the door. Because it seemed the right thing to do.

"Anybody home…?" he asked with a stupid smile.

"…I dischtin'tly recall inventing hinges… mid-Iron Age or so..." Pieces of the door smacked Shiro in the face as the massive gingerbread wall was knocked out. Mephisto reappeared, dusting crumbs from his yukata. "Next time", he swayed and blinked, "I'm gagging you. Jus'so ya know. Eins, zwei-"

"Girl's uniform!"

"Drei!"

*poof*

Girl's uniform, yes. On Mephisto, no.

"That should teach you to *hic* keep your mouth shut, Shiro-chan", he giggled as Shiro tried to forcibly make the skirt reach at least down to his knees.

"An' you should keep your fantasies to yourself, Sammy", he shot back. How on earth did girls wear these things…? "Gemme outta this _now_."

"Hnhnhnhn your wish is my command~"

"_No, wait-_"

*poof*

Given the circumstances, Shiro was relieved that he got to keep his underwear. Even if that was the extent of it.

"Any other requests…?" Mephisto offered with spread hands, looking very happy about the situation in a very unsober way. "Want me to get'cha out of those, too?"

"_No_. An' gag me before I say some other stupid- No, Chris'sake, _don't_!" He shot forward and grabbed Mephisto's fingers clumsily – fingers and hand and part of yukata – before he could snap them. "Okay, le's try this again. I want… my uniform." He held a finger up in front of the demon's face, like a lighthouse to guide his words. "No one else's. An' I want every garment in the right place. Think ye can *hic* do that…?" Great, now he'd started hiccuping, too... "And keep yer hands to yesself while you're at it", he added as he became aware of a hand in his lower back that he was quite sure wasn't his own. One hand pointing at Mephisto, one hand grabbing Mephisto's - yeah, that third one couldn't be his.

"So many demands~" he snickered, and successfully poofed his uniform back in place. "Now, do keep that mouth o' yours shut…" He placed a finger over Shiro's lips and leaned in so close their noses almost touched. "…or I might feel tempted to see if the taste is as sweet as the sound."

"Man, you're even worse when you're drunk…" Though… when he tried to think about it a bit more soberly… "_Does alcohol have the same effect on demons' restraint as it has on humans'…?_" And was that morning sun glinting fiery green in his eyes, or something else…? "Dun' worry, I'll zip up", Shiro ensured. "Poof ahead."

"Eins, zwei, drei!"

*poof*

* * *

**A/N:**

**Just so that it's said, Mephisto has his own opinions on religion (and politics). I try not to judge or slander, but it would be grave hypocrisy to say a human being can ever be truly objective in anything. I don't write my own opinions, however, but the opinions of fictional characters.**

**What really happened in the fifth year of Ansei **(actually fourth to sixth year), when the Impure King was defeated, was that there was an outbreak of cholera in Japan. That was the result of Japan's opening of its harbours in 1854: Europeans brought with them both new goods and new diseases. Or maybe they brought the goods, and a certain demon brought in other demons…?

**Esquire Club** I have no idea what Esquire Club really is, I just saw the sign in Teramachi and thought it was wicked cool that it lay just across the street from:

**Mr. Young Men** which is a very nice place to dine, and it so happens that it opened in 1976. x3 The menu is authentic, too. (Yay for sightseeing and researching in combo!) The sole difference between monjayaki and okonomiyaki seems to be the texture of the batter: runny or less runny. Mephisto states in the manga that the "bacon & cheese" monja is his favourite. It's translated as "mochi" in some versions, but I sincerely believe they meant monja; and it's usually not actual bacon, but thinly sliced pork from the pig's belly. Anyhow, the _Young men _yakisoba is the one with pork in it. _Campus men_ is with shrimp (that one I picked for name only x') ).

**ABBA **were very big in Japan in the 70s: I met a lovely Japanese man in Kyoto who sold artwork made from silkworm cocoons, and when he learnt where I was from he cracked a happy smile and spoke a few sentences of limping-but-completely-correct Swedish. It turned out he was from "the ABBA generation". =)

**Corruption in Japan** There's been some heavy measures taken against yakuza activity (gambling pits, brothels, narcotics) today, but there used to be shady connections between them and lawmakers in the past. I'm basing Creek's End's description both on the structure of True Cross Town in the AnE film (thanks for that, Q ;) ), and on the gay club districts in Tokyo. In the latter I was explicitly warned to watch my step and not bump into anyone, since yakuza think that's excuse enough to rob you/beat you up/rape you/all of the mentioned. =X

**The occupation of Japan** As with all occupations, there were crimes committed against the occupied population. =/ And, as often is the case, be it caused by the pride of the occupiers or the shame of the occupied, the victims were rarely given justice.

**The devil's children have the devil's luck** is the idiom, but what it means is that evil people often seem to be unduly lucky – because they're in league with demons…? I decided on this mostly because it doesn't seem fair to give Mephisto every advantage imaginable. =P He needs some weaknesses to make things more interesting: and if he doesn't have Lady Luck on his side, wouldn't that prompt him to become a master-schemer of the kind that he undeniably is…?

**Thank you, **_**Gecko**_, for going into Shiro's role to the point that you figured out a very plausible reason why he adjusts his glasses the way he does. =D And really, thank you for going so deep into role that you condition yourself with his mannerisms months before cosplaying him! x3 It's gonna be epic, I know it.

**Impersonation **appears to be something Mephisto gladly does for a good laugh: his adventures as Mohammed in Constantinople are mentioned the 1587 _Historia von Doktor Johann Fausten_. The Emperor's wives were rather happy with Faust's visit, and testified that "Mahomet" (Mohammed) was "well fitted-out – they would fain be served in such sort every day", to put it in words that 16th century morals could abide. And if Mephisto later took over that body… enjoy your imagination, all you lovely fangirls. ;)

**Nietzsche quotes** snuck into the dialogue in modified forms: ironically, quotes that more or less contradict each other. x')

"There are various eyes. Even the Sphinx has eyes; and as a result there are various truths, and as a result there is no truth."

"Faith: not wanting to know what is true."

**The Cordoba fighting dog **went extinct long ago, simply because males and females would rather bite each other to death than mate.

**Dolphins** did seriously evolve "backwards": water-living animals got up on land, evolved there for a few million years to the ancestors of hoofed animals (pigs, camels, llamas, hippopotamuses, deer, sheep, goats – you name it), and then went back into water and evolved to become whales and dolphins. Crazy, yet awesome. Thanks again, _**Gecko**_! …and if you don't know why I had a drunk demon ramble about dolphins and _The Sound of Music_, there's a book you really need to read. =.=

**Doves** do fly out of Mephisto's hat when he announces they've been promoted to Esquire, and when Shura has caught him spying in ch 46, so what the hell… x'D The flying pig is there because _**NeuroticNeko**_ prophesized that Samael would create one, and since this chapter drifted towards crack and tomfoolery anyway I just went with the impulse.

* * *

**The Mad Ravings of Dimwit: the Billion-dollar Question**

I don't expect you to agree with me on this one. As usual, I can't prove anything: just connect dots with lines and say what I see in the pattern that emerges. I'll point out some facts for you, and the lines I drew between them, and then… well, then I'll leave you to your own devices. ;)

**Mephisto isn't omnipotent**, but he sure can do many cool things. Stop time, bend space, jump across dimensions, summon everything (?) he wants with a snap of his fingers… But one thing that he can't do, apparently, is to resurrect the dead.

In the anime, we're told that Mephisto experimented with artificial life research, which is what leads me to think he can't do it with his magic (he doesn't seem like the type to go through the trouble of doing things the manual way if he can just snap his fingers). But then, the topic was dropped without touching upon the _real _question: the Billion-dollar Question.

_**Why does Mephisto want to bring dead humans back to life?**_

Just think about it for a moment. Accustom your brain to it. A demon wants to bring humans back to life: why?

**It's a peculiar thing** for a demon to want, I believe. The majority of demons (Kuro and Nii being the only exceptions I know of) don't really care for one human more than another: to them, we're meat-suits that can be possessed and played with. One "toy" breaks – who cares? There's billions more of us, and thousands of new humans born each day, all with the same fundamental properties.

But Mephisto wants to bring back humans that are already dead. Why? Why go through so much trouble? Why not just pick another human for his purposes? There's literally _billions_... but apparently those are not satisfactory. There was something about the now dead humans that simply was... better.

**In all honesty**, humans are more or less the same. Same number of limbs, same set of organs, fairly the same capacity for thought and action, etc. What one human can do, another most likely can do as well. What really sets one human apart from another is the personalities we develop. But demons don't care about that, do they…?

If any demon would develop an interest in human personalities, I think that would be Mephisto. I believe he can and does distinguish between personalities; and that tiny detail is the only thing I can think of to explain why he would want to resurrect the dead. If a human was just a human, he wouldn't care if one died; he'd just go find another to play with. But if humans are individuals to him, each with a unique personality, then one that dies can never be replaced by another.

That distinction has further consequences branching off of it. If one human is different from another - just like the taste of a jellybean is different from that of a chocolate praline - then Mephisto would undoubtedly begin to discriminate: discriminate as in "distinguish based on preference". Maybe he likes chocolate better than jellybeans? For if humans aren't all the same, then there are varieties that Mephisto will like more and varieties that he will like less. Are there then certain varieties of humans, unique personalities found here and there in the flow of time, that he might like enough to bring back from death…? Just think about it for a while...

**Mephisto loves humans** and the things they create. He loves the innovation, the surprise, the constant supply of entertainment they provide. He doesn't _love_ in the human sense of the word: "Demons strive to counteract human attachment to romanticized illusions such as love, goodness me." Rather, he loves his toys; and if he came across an unusual human "toy", I think he'd treat it a bit the same as he does his rare anime collectibles. I think of it as "attachment/fascination/fondness": "possessiveness" could also work. _He_ won't regard it as emotional attachment to a person, I'm sure; more of… a favourite toy that he wanted to play some more with. Because he happened to like that toy more than his others.

**Of course, it could be** that he researched artificial life merely to spite the church: that was my initial thesis, when I thought I was just imagining these traits in him. Besides, artificial life research was only mentioned in the anime, which I view as secondary to the manga in terms of canonical content. But then chapter 44 of the manga was released, and blew my mind. Go back and look at the flashback scene where Yukio pressures Mephisto for the truth:

_"What exactly are you scheming!?"_

_"Come now, stop trying to pressure me. The excitement is best saved for later."_

Rather conceited, isn't he? Now skip to the scene where we get to see Amaimon impaled on clock arms:

_"Who cares, humans die so soon anyway. I just can't understand why you try so hard to handle those bubble-like creatures carefully so as not to break them."_

_"...you'll be staying there for a while until you manage to cool off your murderous intent towards Okumura Rin."_

**There is an ****_immense_**** difference** in how Mephisto handles these two situations. Yukio he dismisses with an almost amused air, even if he's the one that could put a gun to his head; but Amaimon, who is immobilized and at his mercy, makes him hesitate… because hit a sensitive spot? ô.ò Amaimon is the proper demon in that scene, I think. Humans to him are toys, all alike: who cares if they die, when they're going to die sooner or later anyway? But Mephisto… is not of the same opinion. How often do you see _him_ hesitate as he does here? How often do you see him back down like this in a conversation, rather than rule it as he does against Yukio? As he does against Shura after the Impure King arc, when she literally holds a knife to his throat for answers? As he does with Rin when he reveals his true identity in ch 39? Mephisto is _always_ in control of the situation, except that one time in ch 44 when he won't even touch the subject. If you look at that frame, you'll notice Mephisto has his back against Amaimon and is walking away, pointedly avoiding a topic he doesn't want to discuss: that humans are fragile, and live only for a short time.

**So, my guess at the answer to the Billion-dollar Question:** Mephisto is more human than he lets on. He likes humans more than he lets on – whether that is because he's spent so much time in Assiah, or there could be other reasons… I'll get back to that. ;P But there were, I believe, humans that Mephisto was especially attached to. They couldn't be replaced by others, and he couldn't bring them back to life with magic; so he tried to find other ways to do it, and immersed himself in science. And here, I'd like to point out some rather interesting facts concerning the relation between Mephisto and Johann Faust.

_**§ In the anime**_, we are told that Mephisto was involved in this research 500 years ago (from ~2008): that puts us in the 1500s. I wrote it as 400 years ago here, since I'm at 1976, to get the same century. More precisely, he says: "It happened 500 years ago. I, Johann Faust, was immersed in /-/ artificial life research." Note that he specifically throws in his fake alias here, as if it's important to point out that this research is done in the name of Johann Faust. (I doubt it could have been done _by _Johann Faust, when Mephisto uses "I" and "my students" when he speaks of it.) **_§ The earliest preserved version_** of _Historia von Doktor Johann Fausten_ was published in 1587. **_§ There were at least two_** real, historical men contributing to the tales of Johann Faust's life: both of which died in the 1500s. **_§ Mephisto Pheles_** isn't Samael's real name, and neither is Johann Faust: but both names allude to the same legend. Samael has very much in common with the Mephistopheles in _Faust_, both visually and in terms of philosophy; as stated before, I think that he was that very Mephistopheles as one of his many aliases alongside Loke, Raven, and Trickster. Furthermore, Samael is so fond of the name Johann Faust that he's kept it for "five generations", and is down to Johann Faust V. **_§ My personal guess_**, that isn't fact-based as the other things listed above, is that Mephisto's body is the one that originally belonged to (the fictional) Johann Faust. I'll high-five _Zeitdieb_ on this one. ;) Add to this assumption that **one of the fundamental requirements** for reanimation of a dead person is that the body is still intact (Neuhaus keeps his dead wife in some sort of hibernation tank). **_§ …look at him in the anime_**, in the final scene where he reminisces about Faust. =w=' I doubt the Mephisto in the manga would actually act that sappy, but I'm not ruling out the possibility that there is a grain of manga-canonical sentimentality in that scene (if we take into account what's gleaned in ch 44).

**Mephisto was fascinated by Faust**, I believe. An unusual and rare toy? Yes. The question is: does this possessiveness-of-a-toy-explanation justify Mephisto's unseemly retreat, when Amaimon tosses out the question about his caring for humans? Does it justify attempts at reviving the dead? Does it justify five centuries of maintaining the lineage of a name that died with his contractor? How much effort are you willing to put into retrieving a toy? And how much are you willing to put into retrieving someone who mattered to you…?

**If this were just** a demon's cruel, emotionless possessiveness over a toy, Mephisto would have said so: "Unbroken toys one can play with longer, Amaimon", or something along those lines. Emotionless possessiveness is nothing a demon would be ashamed of or hide; it's greed, basically. But Mephisto does hide it, does avoid it… because it wasn't emotionless possessiveness? Because what he feels towards (certain?) humans isn't something a demon is supposed to feel at all? An attachment of that kind, to individuals of the human race, would be a weakness I doubt he'd admit aloud - not to his brother; perhaps not even to himself.

**…guesses, guesses. ^_^' It's a rather controversial idea within the series' frames, this, so I'd be happy to hear your thoughts on the matter.**


	40. 92: Hell

**A/N: One f-ing long chapter means the next one is ridiculously short...? ô.ò Maybe...**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Hell.

He was in hell, and hell was full of shrill clay flutes that drove nails into his head and grated them down his skull.

"Turn that off…!" he croaked into the pillow, cold and overheated and-

"And miss the new episode of _Haha o Tazunete Sanzen Ri_?"

"I don't _care _about your anime." Not when it aired bloody _seven-thirty_ in the morning. "I'm trying to _sleep_."

"And waste a lovely day like this? Have you seen how soft and fluffy the clouds are in that clear blue sky?"

At the command of a snap, every window blind flew up and spewed Summer's Brightest Day In Ten Years over Shiro's face.

"Ngah! Oh, god, fuck…!" He pulled the silk sheet up to shield his head, and wished he could detach it from his body until the headache passed. "You're a royal jerk, you know that?" he muttered at the muted snickering that seeped through the fabric.

"Hmm~ you might have insinuated something to that effect a few times."

Shiro's misery would _not_ entertain Mephisto with any snappy retort to that chirping cheerful comme-

His sluggish cognitive faculties did their best to interpret what was wrong in that picture, but protested loudly at the overtime work. It was no surprise that Mephisto found his suffering amusing: what was surprising was that _he _didn't seem to be suffering.

"You were so plastered you could barely even stand." Shiro crawled around to face the nest of cushions and squinted warningly at it from his shelter under the sheets; a Grumpy Tortoise of Doom. "If you're about to tell me you can poof away hangovers…"

"No such thing, little lion", Mephisto laughed, waving a hand dismissively at the unfinished threat. "Fast metabolism, fast oxidation of alcohol: ergo, I don't get hangovers", he said, smugging him with a pleasant wink over his shoulder. "Ever."

"…I hate you so much right now", Shiro grumbled, and buried himself in the bliss darkness under the sheet.

"Such a lovely day~"

"Go to hell."

* * *

**A/N: Theoretically**, if you had a metabolism that burns energy as fast as Mephisto's does on his 99%-carbohydrate diet, you would also process alcohol faster, and not have any residual products in your body to cause poisoning? I'm willing to give him such an ability, at least. x)


	41. 93: A perfect day

**A/N: I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Mephisto's bed was a bloody death trap: a king-sized fly catch of luxury, beckoning with hour upon hour in the sweet dreamscape of dozing. The silk sheets kept just the right temperature, despite the summer warmth, and let you sleep on cool, soft clouds. The mattress embraced his body with perfection, and the _pillows_…!

"_I could live in this bed._" Shiro wormed one arm in under the plush pillow, nuzzled his face into it, and _relished_. "_It's gotta be stuffed with angel-down or something._"

There comes a time, however, when the pleasure of snoozing can no longer drown out the groans from an empty stomach. Shiro dragged his protesting body out of bed, donned his glasses once the shivering convulsions had passed, and began rehearsing to himself in which order clothes went on the body. Mephisto wasn't around, so he assumed there was a gap before the next anime aired.

"_…fuck._"

Anime special. Saturday. The anime special was on Saturday, and he'd promised to spend Saturday with Shizuku and Kasumi.

Shiro hopped over to the bed table on one leg while pulling his trousers up over the other. Half past eleven? No need for panic, then. He could dress and ease his uncooperative head into functioning without haste.

…why had he saved him?

Uncooperative head… Shiro buttoned his shirt slowly, repeating over and over the question that had squirmed in his mind ever since Mephisto's drunk curiosity planted it there. Why save Satan's son? You'd think you'd have a sound and solid reasoning to back your actions before you put yourself in a life-and-death situation like that, yeah?

Shiro's brain was a peculiar contraption not unlike a very, very old car: either it worked very efficiently, or not at all. Sometimes it was a curious mix of both, when he performed the most idiotic acts with the calculated precision of a surgeon. Deep Keep had been that kind of mix; impulse and accuracy, mindless instinct and steel focus.

"_I never thought of myself as a soldier…_" But as he sat down on the bed to tug on his socks, he realised that's what he was: trained to make decisions and enter combat at any given moment, with a minimum margin for mistakes. He'd always had the makings of a soldier, but with the training he'd gotten through cram school had become one. "_Pff, a soldier who betrays his own and helps the enemy._" He cringed and cursed under his breath as the wastebasket panda came clanking over the checkerboard floor, carrying his other sock between its jaws. "_Demons even treat me as if I were one of them._"

He didn't have any trash to give it, but snatched one of Mephisto's drawings from the wall – what was that even supposed to be? a guy with a Christmas tree on his head? – and fed it to the delighted panda. He vividly remembered the first time he'd made contact with the familiar: getting bitten by the little critter for tossing crumpled paper on the table. Mephisto had had so much fun at him when he pulled his feet up in the chair…

"_I did save him 'cause I like him. I just rushed ahead without thinking and didn't realise what I was getting myself into – not the smartest thing to do, in retrospect, but I did it to save him._" Couldn't say he regretted it, either. He regretted the six that had died, but he didn't regret saving Mephisto. He'd never regret saving someone he liked. "_Tell him that and he turns it into something pervy. Unbelievable, that guy…_" His abdomen trembled with laughter when he recalled how Mephisto had more or less climbed up in some guy's lap in the bar, until Shiro had dragged him away. "_Unbelievable and incomparable._"

He rubbed the panda's metallic head gently and caused it to give off some strange humming sound, while his uncooperative mind lingered on certain other things that had happened yesterday.

"_I'm a human who acts like a demon, and he's a demon that acts like a human. Heh, what are the odds…?_" A grin grew on his lips. "_About the same as the odds of him rolling a win at hazard games._"

When he felt Mephisto's presence approach the door, he was almost done dressing.

"Gute Morgen, Sleeping beauty." True to his habits on holidays, Mephisto wore a casual yukata. Choice of clothing for the day was one in imperial yellow, with a pattern of pink seeds and white flowers that Shiro recognised from his mother's small but dearly loved garden: Japanese spindle tree.

"We've been through this, and I'm not the princess here", he pointed out with a smile.

"Clearly not, since a kiss from a prince didn't wake you from your slumber."

"What kiss?" he said flatly, halting everything he had been doing.

An insinuating grin smeared itself over the demon's features.

"Come now – a handsome young man half-naked in my bed; how could I possibly resi- _careful with that!_" The anime figurine disappeared out of Shiro's hand before he had a chance to throw it, and reappeared in Mephisto's protective clasp. "Goodness, Shiro, I was joking! And this is a limited edition collectible! It could become _invaluable _in the future, sought after by otakus like the Golden Fleece by the Argonauts!"

He was safe, then – well, not from Mephisto's imminent ode to otaku culture, but even that held a certain charm once you had accepted it as one of his many characteristic quirks. Shiro had learnt quite a few new words that way: _shibboleth_, for one. _Tsundere _was a word Mephisto had refused to explain, but since Shiro kept hearing it applied to himself he suspected it had some pervy meaning that validated the expression "ignorance is bliss".

It was fascinating, too, to see how all that exposure to anime had influenced Mephisto's body language. Shiro had put it down to sheer quirkiness at first, but as he'd become aware of the demon's habits and hobbies it had occurred to him that his behaviour looked too much like a cartoon's for it to be coincidence.

"_And he's got natural purple hair. He's like a living anime character._" Shiro had zoned out of the demon's monologue long ago, and focused his attention on adding the final touches to his clothing. "_Wonder what his series would be called? Fufufufu 'Ribon no Akuma'._" He watched his reflection grin at the thought. "_Or 'Marvelous Mephisto'! Guh, maybe without the panty-shots…_"

"-the depth and complexity of a charming façade over a troubled past makes moekko even more…" the lilting voice trailed off; green eyes lingered on Shiro's hands and the work they were performing. "Since when can you do a tie?"

"I learnt it the first time you showed me", he replied, smiling at the look that planted on Mephisto's face. "But it's much more fun to pretend I can't and hear you whining about it." Shiro smoothed the collar down over the tie, and adjusted the latter to his preferred degree of sloppiness. "Guess that's not gonna work anymore. How about breakfast?"

Mephisto pinched the bridge of his nose with two clawed fingers, but chuckled rather than sighed.

"My my, what a monster I've created…"

* * *

Shiro burped loudly on his way down the road from Faust Mansion. The wheeling swallows cheered summer on with sharp cries, and a pleasant breeze tossed his hair and tugged at the jacket slung over his shoulder. Ukobach had taken every precaution to ensure the guest would be satisfied with his breakfast, and lined up a buffet with more dishes than even the fancy Academy cafeteria offered. Ukobach was also a dangerously talented chef.

The bright day smoothed out the sinus curve of his body temperature, and Shiro wore a smile on his lips despite the sluggish protests from his head. True Cross Town reached for the horizon below him; one mastodon carpet of civilization drinking up the sunlight and beaming it back from parabolic antennas and bridge wiring and windshields, with buildings elbowing each other for space in the paddocks streets herded them into. Up through the mud, striving for the light.

Shiro took a moment to stop and look at it: look at it from the topmost lotus flower that soared higher than all the rest. On days like this, such a view filled one's lungs with warm hope and vibrant promises.

"_I can do whatever I want now_", he told the city quietly, smiling at the bustling panorama and closing his eyes briefly as the wind made the crosses on the glasses string dance. "_I can start studying for my first Meister, I've got money, friends, girlfriend, summer job, a reputation…_" He squinted in the bright light, and grinned wider still. "_First ever to pass all exams at once, most promising student in decades: suck on that._" For a moment he imagined he was thinking about somebody else, 'cause that really wasn't him. Not a year ago. So many things that can change in a single year… "_I've got the world at my feet._" And what a feeling that was! "_And all because I was dumb enough to break into that old goat's office._" Shiro laughed quietly to himself. That's Mephisto's beloved Lady Chance for you; turning the world inside out when you least expect it.

No headache could stop him from running the remaining road down to the Academy campus: too much hope warming his muscles, too many promises buzzing in his nervous system. Too much Shiro to fit into the body.

"Haaah-haah-haah…" Kasumi was right to click her tongue at his stamina; still, it felt good. He dropped his jacket on the first patch of grass he came upon, laid down and leaned back on his elbows and just… enjoyed. "_This day's perfect._" He closed his eyes and smiled up at the sun, feeling the grass under his fingers and the smell of warm asphalt in his nostrils. "_A cigarette now and it would be really perfect._"

Suddenly wondering if Mephisto had remembered to return his lighter, Shiro sat up and dug around in his pocket. Yes, the lighter was there: along with something else.

"_Candy…?_" He pulled the smooth, hard pieces out of his pocket: it was not candy. "_Ah, that's right_", he grinned. Didn't remember putting them there, but seeing them made a chuckle bounce in his throat. "_I'm pretty sure they didn't have that colour before_", he mused as he turned one of them between his fingers. Looked more like children's toys now… "Oh, of course", he chortled quietly to himself. "Don't do magic when you're drunk. Never know what might happen."

But it's more fun that way. It's more fun to lay rules aside now and then; take chances, and see where they get you.

"Take a gamble…" Shiro mumbled, watching the sunlight reflect off the object's shiny surface. "That's what we do, you and I…" And nurtured by the warm sunlight and a belly full of breakfast, an idea took shape.

An idea is a curious thing. You never quite know where it comes from, and more often than not it's one of those wonders that successfully slips past notice and carries out its work with no questions asked. But, as with many wonders, one might still rediscover it and marvel; if you pay attention, that is. The forming of an idea is quick – too quick to register, for it is the transitional point where knowledge and memory cease to be either and combine into something entirely new. It's the magical moment when strands of thought and recollections half forgotten merge together, and give birth to something that is more than the sum of its constituents.

As it were, Shiro was far too occupied with being alive to pay attention, and this particular wonder slipped completely past notice and scrutiny.

…as maybe other things did, too.

* * *

Hellhounds are excellent trackers, and also ridiculously easy to track with the burnt paw marks they leave. Shiro followed the trail to the small orchard where Midori had gathered wood for their charms long ago. The pear and apple trees were in full bloom, as though some of the fluffy clouds Mephisto admired had been anchored to earth with gnarly trunks. Humming bees were busy securing that autumn would have plenty of apples that students could pick; and beneath the buzzing foliage stood a lanky, traditionally dressed teenager who'd already tanned to a hue of dark honey. He didn't look quite as harmonious as the rest of the setting.

"Goddammit, Shiro! I nearly shit myself! Why'd ya send that beast ta eat up my work?!"

With that spiky, back-combed haircut Shizuku looked almost like he was bristling where he stood, slightly hunched, with the tip of his khakkhara pointing accusingly at the hellhound that was… chewing… on something…

"Sorry, I just didn't know where to find you." Shiro dismissed his familiar by burning through the summoning circle with his cigarette, and picked the chewed, slimy, _scorched_ piece of wood up from the grass with an apologetic look. "Um, I'll cover the extra cost for making a new one", he said sheepishly. "What was it going to be?"

"A daruma otoshi doll. Wasn't the head piece yer mutt got, fortunately." Shizuku swung the khakkhara around to rest against the apple tree with the same practiced motions as Kasumi did. "Ya came ta find me, ye say? Not ta collect me fer hell, I hope?"

"Actually, that was what I was going to do – but I'm willing to let you off the hook if you do me a favour."

"I'm lis'ning, Enma-kun", he grinned and crossed his arms.

"Do you take commissions?"

"Ye as dumb as ye look? It's what I make a living off."

"I look nowhere near as dumb as I am." Even with pink hair. "I've got a bit of a special request, if you're up to it. I'm paying, it's not that: the favour is that you'll do it today, before you guys leave." Shiro rummaged around his pocket and got out- "Crap, I must've dropped one. Anyway, these." He held out the remaining four in the palm of his hand. "Have you got any tool that can make a hole in them? Enough for a nylon string to fit through?"

"Lemme have a look at that." Shizuku picked one up for closer scrutiny. "Plastic. Yeah, I can put a hole through this. It's gonna take a while with hand-tools, but it's doable." He cupped his large, calloused hand and let Shiro drop the other three in it. "I'm gonna need ye ta hold 'em still for me, though."

"If I do half the work, I should get half the pay", Shiro smiled, putting his cigarette out and seating himself on his knees in the grass.

"That's why I charge extra fe' whining." Shizuku flashed him an impish glance as he sat down and began assembling a simple hand-drill from his roll of tools.

"Per minute, or per word?"

"Per on."

"The hell's 'on'?"

"Pff, ye're funny… I learnt ta write with a stick in dirt, an' learnt ta read from road signs an' shop windows." Shizuku raised a pierced eyebrow over his teasing smile, silently asking how much Shiro had learnt in the public schools he went to. "On is the unit ye use when ye count sounds in words, but it's not paid much attention to outside poetry." He set the first one down on a flat piece of wood, and motioned for Shiro to hold it in place. "In poetry it's a must. Like, fer haiku the form is five on, seven on, five on; an' fer tanka it's five, seven, five, seven, seven."

That was pretty cool – Shizuku was cool, in many ways. He'd grown up feral, like Shiro, but done it in rural Japan while Shiro had spent his life in the city. They were similar, on many levels; and still, they had two completely different reference frames.

"Do I look like the kind of guy that reads poetry…?" Shiro asked, grinning askew at the mere thought of it.

However, his words made Shizuku's smile turn downright devilish.

"Nah; ye look more like the kind a' guy that reads shoujo manga he's borrowed from 'is demon buddy."

Wha-? Okay, _now _he looked as dumb as he was.

"Who told you that?" Shiro sputtered.

"Sen-chan. Midori-chan thought ye' shoulder bag smelt o' Pheles an' poked around in it." He snickered merrily at Shiro's groan. "Berusayu no Bara, is it~?"

"_Please_ don't tell Kasumi-chan?"

Or anybody else, for that matter. His reputation would do just fine without people knowing that he read girls' comics.

"Kukukuku got ya by the balls now, haven't I~?"

"And squeezing", said Shiro flatly.

"I think I'll leave that ta Pheles. Just joking, man, just joking – it's hard ta resist." He glanced up only briefly, and held hands and eyes steady on his work. "I was gonna ask if ye'll have the time ta spar with me, though. After summer. Kasu an' I leave with the sun te'morrow morning. We might drop by here a few times during summer, but just briefly. I'll settle back in a week or so before next semester – will ye be 'ereabouts then?"

"I'll be here whenever you are, working my butt off as janitor."

"Good ta know."

"And I'll be happy to cause some fatal training accident if you tell anyone about that manga."

"Doesn't sound that threatening from a guy with pink hair", he chuckled, and blew away plastic dust from his work. "Dun' worry, I won't tell anyone."

"Thanks. And for the record, your sister likes it pink."

"I'm sure Pheles does, too~"

"…yeah", Shiro muttered. "Especially how I match his furnishings now. I could hang above the mantelpiece in the parlour, next to the Meissen porcelain candelabras."

…Shizuku had a very large mouth; and when he grinned that wide, he almost looked like a frog.

"Ye mean te say yer drapes match his carpet…?"

Shiro doubled over, and they had to stop drilling until he could hold himself still again.

"For one who's left earthly desires behind you've got one damn dirty mind, Shizu!"

"It's you who bring out the worst in me", he grinned into his hand, as if shielding his eyes from unpleasant images. "Ah, man… Heh, Kasu does, too, so I figure ye're a good match fer each other. I'd rather have yer ugly mug fer a brother-in-law than Futotsuki Makoto's." Shizuku let out a merry snicker. "Even if ye dye ye' hair ta match Pheles' bed sheets."

"I don't match his bed sheets", he said before he could think. "Which I know 'cause he never makes his bed properly." And now would be a good moment for changing subject, yes. "Speaking of which: know who'd like to be matched against his bed sheets?" he asked with an indecent gleam in his eyes. "Goggles-sensei."

Shizuku stopped drilling.

"Goggles-sensei…? Ye're jokin', right?"

"Nu-uh: she's fancied him for years. The bastard's well aware of it, too. Take a close look next time she wipes her goggles and you'll notice that handkerchief's got a small M-monogram on it", Shiro grinned. "He gave it to her once when she had a cold during a personnel meeting, and let her keep it."

"Wow… that's… disturbing." Shizuku laughed awkwardly and tried to shake the images out of his head. "Dammit Shiro, now I won't ever be able ta have Aria class without thinkin' o' her sniffin' that handkerchief when she's goin' ta sleep!"

Their laughter mingled with the humming of insects as the breeze gently rustled the white canopy, and from somewhere far away the smell of food wafted over the cracked pavement of the forlorn little square that hid in the orchard. Shiro's head throbbed glumly and threatened him with nausea if he didn't immediately drop this inappropriately merry attitude, but he didn't care. It was a perfect day.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Marvelous Mephisto **– sounds adorable, I think, but _Marvelous Melmo _(1970-1972) was in fact intended as sex-ed for children. ^_^' Heart-warming story, though, and it's a Tezuka, so I'd like to read it someday.

**Ribon no Kishi **(1953-1956)– was translated as _Princess Knight_, but is read literally as "Knight of the Ribbon". And whichever translation you stick to in the end, I think "Princess Demon" sounds as good as "Demon of the Ribbon" for Mephisto.

**Daruma Otoshi** – is a children's toy. It's a man built of five pieces of wood standing on top of each other, and the aim is to use a small hammer to knock away the pieces from bottom to top without toppling the head.


	42. 94: 1 of 6

**A/N: You have no idea how much I've been longing to launch this subplot. =^w^= It may not look much now, but think of it as the peas you can let young Link plant, which grow into giant beanstalks to climb when he's adult Link.**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created. **

* * *

It was, in a sense, like when he had tried to explain to Shizuku and Ryuuji why it was obvious to flirt with- to _strategically deceive_ Mephisto. This had been equally obvious when the idea struck him, and it was equally impossible to make it sound sensible when explaining it.

Mephisto was enjoying summer holidays the way a prince would: his thin body lounged in a sun chair under a garish pink parasol in his courtyard, with an iced drink in one hand and a book in the other. The part of Shiro's mind that wasn't squirming with effort to come up with a good explanation told him that that content face called for a bucket of cold water.

"Here you go." Hopefully, he wouldn't have to explain at all. That would make it so much easier…

The demon looked at the keychain in the outstretched hand, and then up at Shiro.

…there would have to be an explanation.

"I found them in my pocket this morning, and I thought- Well, I don't know how much I really _thought_, but it seemed… fitting. A keychain for the master of keys. You keep mementos, don't you?" He plucked the string with the dice up between his fingers. They had gone from red and white to light blue and shock pink, and at the moment they felt much more comfortable to rest his eyes on than Mephisto. "If you're gonna have something to remember me by, this is way better than a haircut."

He knew that look, even if he wasn't looking straight at Mephisto: a hundred thoughts at once, a cluster of connections made that flitted over the green eyes and were gone in an instant – or an eternity.

"_Or twenty-four years_", Shiro's mind whispered to him. Johann had had twenty-four years, and had left Mephisto a memento that would last for eternity. "_Is that what you were thinking of…?_"

How did you tell, with that poker face…? Mephisto merely put the drink on the table and held his hand out, palm upwards. The simplest gesture in the world.

Don't ever be fooled by something that looks simple and unassuming.

The keychain laid itself to rest in the naked palm with a muffled, plastic clinking. No, there was much Shiro hadn't thought of when he decided to do this: acted on impulse, like so many times before. He hadn't thought of how much weight those four dice carried. He hadn't thought of how much weight his actions put on them, hadn't…

"Only four?"

…hadn't thought of how much weight they would have gained if Mephisto hadn't accepted them.

"The fifth got lost somewhere along the way", he said, toying with his lighter to keep himself from fidgeting. He did _not _want to be fidgeting right now. "_I wonder if he suspects anything?_" Shiro mused to himself as Mephisto put the book down in his lap and poofed the key ring to his hand. "_I can never tell what's going through his mind, when he thinks that fast. Maybe he suspects I know._" He checked a merry snicker that threatened to give him away. "_Not that he'd ever let me know that he suspects it, if he does._" Such were the ways of their… whatever-it-was.

There's no real guidelines to define what friendship is. _Trust _is a component most would include. _Care _is another. Shiro couldn't claim the relation between him and Mephisto held any great measure of either, apart from the trust Mephisto put in his abilities to read between the lines.

…on the other hand, trust and care were the basis for friendship between humans. Friendship between demon and human was uncharted territory, with no rules and no definitions: there's no need to define something that doesn't exist.

"_Fascination._" Fascination had been his lifeline in Deep Keep when he'd convinced Mephisto to spare him, as well as the reason he kept fluttering towards the demon like the famed moth to the flame. "_Entertainment._" There was never a dull moment around Mephisto, and he brought out the prankster side in Shiro like no one ever had. "_Challenge._" Like particles in a thunderstorm, they gravitated towards each other with massive discharges as end result whenever they clashed. "_Heh, and most importantly_", he smiled at his thoughts, "_he bends the rules, and I break them._"

…there are no rules governing friendship between humans and demons, because such a friendship is based on the condition that both demon and human defy the fundamental rules of both races. The odds for that to happen? …no, Shiro didn't need any more headache than he already had. He was fine with trusting the whims of Lady Chance if Mephisto was.

The plastic dice seemed somewhat shy among the shiny metal keys, as if wondering how on earth they had come to share such fine company. Mephisto turned his key ring back and forth before half-mast eyes.

"I do all manner of things when I'm tipsy, it seems", he mused regarding the colour.

Shiro hadn't expected a "thanks". Didn't need one, either. Mephisto was a flamboyant show-off and magician of words; and for that reason, the words he didn't say were the ones that truly mattered.

"You were a fair bit beyond tipsy, I can tell you", Shiro chuckled lightly, feeling a tension he hadn't been aware of leave his shoulders. "Well, I'll bid you a pleasant day, and be off to see my friends."

"You won't stay for a drink?"

"The only thing I'll be drinking today is water, thanks to you. Have a nice day."

"Manners? From you? Are you still intoxicated?"

"Maybe", he grinned, and flung a casual wave as he turned around and crossed the crunching gravel of the courtyard,  
past bright rainbows that swirled in the mist from the fountain.

Indeed, this day was perfect.

* * *

**A/N: You do recognise those dice, I hope? If not, a peek at the cover of volume four might help. =)**


	43. 95: Holiday snapshots

**A/N: This chapter refers back to one in BtEatB, actually. ^_^' I'm trying to streamline my work as much as possible, so some scenes that do happen in the main fic will be placed in BtEatB for the sake of flow.**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created. **

* * *

So, Shiro didn't have any friends to celebrate with when the actual graduation ceremony took place. He didn't have any relatives to greet him, and he didn't have any home to return to for family dinner. He did get a kiss from the prefect he'd bet with – followed by a harsh slap across the face. And that was it for graduation.

Still, he graduated with a smile on his lips.

Mephisto, believe it or not, wasn't fond of long speeches. The one he held for the graduate students in the grand auditorium wasn't even a minute long, and was essentially a statement that the students probably wanted to leave school as soon as possible anyway; as well as a subtle hint that the school felt the same about the students.

* * *

A school as prestigious as True Cross Academy did of course keep its premises as impeccable as its reputation. This was accomplished through an army of janitors that weeded flower beds, mowed lawns, polished banisters, emptied trash cans, pruned, raked leaves, scraped chewing gums from under benches… and much, much more. Over summer, janitors and cleaners earned Shiro's deepest respect, and he vowed quietly to himself never to sabotage for them again.

* * *

When Shiro finished his janitor work for the day, he took a bath in the now-empty dorm and dressed himself in the sloppiest t-shirts and shorts he could find: anything to give Mephisto opportunity to complain, when he trotted into Faust Mansion using the magical key the old goat had made _especially for him _(after a whole lot of tongue-in-cheek whining about how far it was to walk, and how much time that took from their arcade game matches).

Shiro was becoming such a regular guest that the household had taken to calling him "bocchan". While he wasn't sure if he should be proud or embarrassed in response to that, he did admit to himself that he felt rather at home in Faust Mansion. He looked misplaced in the extravagant environment (although his drapes did match many of the carpets), but the familiarity that had grown between him and the servants made him feel accepted – appreciated, even.

…until he applied his experiences from janitor work on the household, and stuck a chewing gum onto the waste bin panda's body. It knocked over several candelabras, vases, paintings, chairs, doors, servants, _walls_ before somebody could catch it and hold the crazed familiar down long enough to remove the offending trash.

The staff of Faust Mansion had to admit that, while the little master had an appreciated dampening effect on the real master, they were both essentially overgrown children that ought to be kept on a leash.

* * *

He may not have obtained any Meister yet, but Shiro was allowed to tag along on minor missions such as exterminating goblin nests or exorcising chuchi.

…on one mission the reported chuchi were discovered to be possessed giant hornets, which prompted all exorcists to barricade themselves in a warded circle and detonate holy water grenades in the swarm. _Non-_possessed giant hornets were as big as Shiro's thumb, and had venom that could dissolve flesh: _possessed _giant hornets… were a nightmare.

* * *

…and if Shiro thought he'd get away with sneaking horse dung into Mephisto's scarf drawer, he was sorely mistaken. He wasn't forced to pay for new ones, thank god…

…but he _was_ forced to carry the bags when Mephisto went shopping for them. The old scarves were all thoroughly washed, but the finicky bastard insisted he needed some new additions for next semester – and why not some new gloves, while he was at it? And there was a gorgeous summer collection of shoes that he simply _had _to go through, and Armani sold the most _fabulous_ shirts just next door…

Shiro sat on a bench outside the gaudy Prada boutique, wearing the look of a dead fish. They had only come halfway through the Omotesando district, and he was already buried under innumerable plastic bags and gift boxes with fanciful logotypes in gold print. Never assault Mephisto's clothes. Never, _ever _assault Mephisto's clothes.

"Yours has a taste in fine clothing too, I take it?" the gentleman next to him joked politely. He had a neat little collection of shopping bags, too, and a suit that looked like it might cost more than Shiro spent on food in an entire year. "It's not easy on one's wallet, but an investment for the happiness of both nonetheless", he smiled, eyes roaming Shiro's mountain of bought goods under aged eyelids. "A word of advice, though, for the young heart filled with passion: don't let her get you whipped too well. A treat now and then will make her happy: abundance will make her spoiled."

"Uh, no: you see, I'm-"

"I couldn't decide which pair looked best, so I got both~" Doom in a pink yukata came prancing up to him, carrying another two shopping bags, and a beaming smile that somehow gave Shiro the idea that he was made to carry that mountain of crap so he couldn't punch Mephisto. "Hold these, Shiro-pon~"

"I only have two hands – and don't call me-mmph." Only two hands, but teeth work fine for carrying, too. "_No, I'm not whipped. Not at all_", he grumbled as he loaded the tilting wall of boxes onto lower arms that were strewn with bangles of plastic bags, and carefully balanced his way after Mephisto.

Oh, he could imagine what the man on the bench was thinking. He could imagine what plenty of people in Omotesando must be thinking – and that wasn't even the worst part.

Shiro was, through unfortunate discoveries made while searching for misplaced glasses one morning, fully aware that Mephisto's silk stockings were precisely that: stockings. The full monty, garter belt and all. It didn't matter one bit that it had been the vogue for men in the 1550s: there were terrible, terrible images of a pin-up model Mephisto forever imprinted on his brain.

…and they all came out vividly – oh yes; dancing can-can over his retina – when Mephisto shoved him into a lingerie shop and asked his opinion on whether he would look better in a white garter belt with cherries, or a lacy turquoise one with white dots.

* * *

**A/N: Omotesando** is one of the fancier shopping districts in Tokyo, where all the most expensive brands have flagship boutiques. When **a guy is whipped** he's wrapped around his partner's little finger: he will do anything s/he asks. (An expression I'd never heard before, so I'm chancing some others might also be new to it.)


	44. 96: Between you and me

**A/N: I apologise in advance for abusing Saburota's character. x/ I'm not good at writing this guy, but he happens to be one of very few in the canon cast that could have been present in Shiro's youth. So I kinda need to include him… An early version of him, as told by a demon that has a fondness for half-truths and withheld information.**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created. **

* * *

Sundays were different. There was no work on Sundays: it was the prescribed day of rest in Catholic tradition, and as the pious Catholics they both were, Shiro and Mephisto used Sundays for watching anime and sparring. Shiro had decided to pursue his Doctor and Dragoon Meisters first, since those were his favourite subjects, but Knight was the class that more than any other allowed him to develop his imprint-enhanced strength. It was a pastime they both could enjoy, and a refreshing break from watching anime and playing games.

They only sparred when the sun had left Japan to cool for the night, both for the issue of the heat and so as not to risk anybody seeing them. Shiro was considerably faster than an average human should be, and even if his physique drew looks and sighs from the female janitors it could not explain the abnormal strength in his slashes against Mephisto.

…yeah, he still got his ass spanked. Always would. Mephisto never tired, never rested, and could toy with him till he quite literally slumped down on the baseball court.

"You can rap my head all you like", he told the grass that poked into his mouth where he lay, flattened out on his belly, "I'm not moving another muscle tonight." Actually, he was considering if it wasn't warm enough to sleep outdoors.

"And if I take an ear off…?" The cool steel of the blade licked against Shiro's earlobe and made him tense involuntarily.

"Don't. I need it to hold my glasses up."

The touch vanished to the sound of a low chuckle underneath the chirping of crickets and night insects. No, Mephisto wouldn't do such a thing. It was a testament to his skill, perhaps more than anything, that he could spar as intensely as they did without ever drawing blood.

Shiro grumbled into the lawn. He'd never be able to match the lissom grace of Mephisto's swordsmanship. It didn't matter that his damaged nervous system evened out the difference by enhancing his strength; Mephisto had a completely different kind of _control _in his movements. He had _precision_, as if the sword was part of his body – as was the ground, the air, _everything_.

"_His eyes work different from a human's, and his hearing is better, too – maybe it's the same with his other senses…_" Different_ly_, corrected a voice in the back of his mind that sounded an awful lot like Shizuku's. "_Man, I'm so tired…_"

Spending time with Mephisto came with one additional advantage: since demons were territorial, they perceived Shiro as Mephi- as _Prince Samael's _property when he was nearby, and didn't bother him. As awkward as that was in theory, it was invaluable to have that opportunity to drop his guard completely. He'd gotten used to shielding himself now; that didn't mean he liked it. Keeping one's emotions constantly in check was taxing, not to mention handicapping in social life.

…and in addition, Shiro had a gnawing feeling that if he locked his emotions up long enough, they would atrophy; they would wither and stiffen and become mechanical responses to others' emotions – reflections mirrored in a surface of polished ice.

"I've been thinking about Saburota-senpai", he said and rolled over onto his back.

Mephisto opened one eye to show he was listening, even if he looked like he was napping on the floating divan.

"_I'll never get over that unicorn._" Shiro smiled faintly at the plushie resting in the crook of the demon's arm. "I asked him if there was anything he needed, when I was gonna go buy groceries the other day. 'No, I'm fine', he said. It wasn't more than that, a perfectly normal reply; and still I had a feeling that he would've replied the same no matter what I'd asked him."

Mephisto's eyebrows rose some millimeter, but other than that no reaction.

"The thing is I've been a bit of a dick to him", Shiro continued, folding his hands behind his head as he spoke straight up into the stars. "I've tried apologising – you know, with what little I'm allowed to say about Deep Keep. That I was under orders not to speak seemed to make him… well, not give up the chase, but at least leave me out of it. I know he's upset about what happened, so when he gave me that 'No, I'm fine' I…"

Shopping for groceries wasn't even remotely related to the Deep Keep incident: Shiro was perfectly aware of that. He was also perfectly aware that Saburota wanted to now the truth, and that the smile he'd worn when he exited Mephisto's office hadn't suited him one bit.

"I get the impression he doesn't want anybody to worry about him." And recognised that tendency all too well. "But I do. Kinda. In a weird way." He removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. So damn difficult to explain, these issues he always seemed to run into with people. "I think… I recognise the pattern, now that I'm aware of it, but I think I noticed it because of the imprint. I think I might have an idea of… how demons must view humans."

There it was: his reluctance to share with others beyond what was fun and superficial. …but who else could he share things like this with? Shizuku would give him that Wary Of The Demon Charmer Look, Ryuuji would get anxious and worried, Midori would quietly break his heart with eyes that wished he wouldn't be like a moth drawn by flame – and Mephisto just lay there, silent and untroubled, and listened.

"There's something eating Saburota-senpai", Shiro continued in flat, murmuring tones, "and I know that because it triggered an impulse in me once. I wanted to provoke a reaction, and what I felt then was – I think – like a milder version of what you felt with that manga magazine. That time when you were forbidden to watch or read anything." He put his glasses back on and glanced at Mephisto – busy with braiding the tail of the unicorn, from the looks of it, but no doubt listening. "I had this _urge _to push Saburota-senpai till he snapped. Sure, I've felt tempted to taunt people many times, but that was different." Yeah. Very different. "There was a sinister side to it that I didn't recognise. Can imprint cause such impulses? Or is it your bad influence in general?" he added in lighter tones.

"What bad influence?" he smiled crookedly, admiring his handiwork. "It's all thanks to me that you've learnt to make use of your head – and to do a tie, although you insist on making it sloppy on purpose. Horribly bad manners."

"Why, it's a matter of modus vivendi, princess~" Shiro explained with a blithe smile.

"And your vocabulary has improved vastly from my bad influence, too", he observed with a cheeky smirk – which quickly dropped, along with his pointed ears. "Haah, but your implementation of it is as poor as your taste in wearing ties… Indeed, modus vivendi…"

A bubbling chuckle trembled in Shiro's throat: oh, Mephisto was a big brother, through and through – and the Honda siblings weren't the only ones that had adopted him as family, it seemed~

"To answer your question, the imprint enhances what is already present in you: brings your darker sides out and makes them thrive. You have a quick mouth and a fondness for teasing and taunting: I wouldn't find it surprising if an imprint could make those traits take on a more demonic quality." That… was probably true. "This is what I meant when I said it's up to you to embrace or suppress your nature", Mephisto continued casually, letting the unicorn gallop over the cushions. "These urges you experience will not disappear: but~ the choice is yours whether you control them or they control you."

…so simple. Mephisto made it sound so simple and uncomplicated, and Shiro realised that was one of the things he really liked with the demon: he didn't judge. A human with a demon's instincts would've caused plenty of reaction in other humans – fear, anxiety, repulsion, distrust; bothersome things Shiro would rather avoid. But Mephisto didn't bat an eye, didn't care one bit… and that… was relieving beyond words.

Deep down, it wasn't the effects the imprint had on him that made Shiro tense and worried. It was the effects it would have on others.

"I never thought of how many choices we make till I got to know you: which in itself involved some pretty dumb choices – but that's life, I guess" he pondered aloud. "What about Saburota-senpai? Any idea what's up with him?"

…there was, he wouldn't deny, a trace of self-berating woven into his questions. He _had _been awful to Saburota, completely unjustified and without the means to repair the damage properly. He had been awful to Yasuda and Fuji, too, and because of that Fuji had changed; had made choices that…

No, Shiro had never thought of how many choices humans made until he got to know Mephisto; or what impact those choices could have.

"Recall what I said about tradition…?" the demon asked leisurely.

"Yeah, somewhere beyond three glasses of bourbon and an unknown amount of saké…" Shiro mumbled and knitted his eyebrows together in focus. He had memorized forty sutras and nineteen chapters from the Bible for his Aria exam: committing words to memory was second nature by now. "Tradition is a solitary species, and it doesn't appreciate competition."

"Very good~ And why doesn't it?"

Guessing games, huh? Shiro didn't even find it strange anymore. The clues may seem far-fetched, but the conclusion always turned out to be surprisingly accurate.

"A species doesn't appreciate competition…" he mused to the stars, "…because that diminishes its own chances to survive."

"Quite so, quite so", Mephisto nodded against the plush cushions. "Let us picture Tradition as a living thing, with humans as the territory that provides it with nourishment. Other Traditions, if aggressive, may lay claim to the humans and starve one Tradition to death. Now, is there any other way that a Tradition could be killed…?"

Shiro took a moment to translate the analogy back and forth.

"Its territory could become uninhabitable", he murmured, struggling to see how that would apply. "The humans could… change? Uh, in some way that would make them abandon their traditions…?

"M-hm, m-hm: close, but not quite", the demon hummed. "Tradition is a convention of the human mind, a set of customs passed on from one generation to another: it exists only so long as the mind sees fit to sustain it. If enough humans were to change their minds, it would fade. Therefore, Tradition doesn't like change, and doesn't like questioning: it aims to preserve itself, and that necessitates preserving its habitat unchanged."

"Think you can cut this down to a little fewer words?" Shiro interrupted through a yawn. "Unlike you, I need more than an hour's sleep at night to be able to work." The grass was starting to feel damp and cold through his already sweaty clothes, and he needed a bath before he could sleep, and needed to put his laundry in the washing machine, and-

"True understanding can't be built without a solid foundation", came the reply with a delicately slighted edge. "Rushing things is a terribly bad habit you humans have."

"Well, we don't live forever." It was relieving to be able to relax his mind, yes: it also brought back his habit of speaking without thinking at full force. "_Crap, should I apologise? But he doesn't know I know about Johann, and I really don't think he wants me to know about Johann…_" And he really didn't want to hit any raw nerves, either. "So are you gonna get going with explaining, or are you waiting for me to fall asleep?" he tried in his usual off-hand manner.

"Manners like an ape…" Mephisto sighed and massaged the base of his nose. Shiro sighed inwardly, too – no raw nerves hit, as far as he could tell. "As briefly as possible, Tradition requires a new generation to continue where the old one left off. But what if the next generation isn't willing…?"

"…don't know. Tradition dies?"

"No, it doesn't want to die: so what does it do?"

Do? There wasn't much it _could_ do, since it had no mind or muscle to force people do its bidding. Though, if it _had_ been a living thing…

"It would try to make the next generation take over where the former left off", he replied with a shrug, and rubbed his hands over his arms for warmth. "I don't see how it could do that, since it doesn't have a mind of its own."

"Oh, but it does~ It lives in every human mind, planted there through the minds of parents and relatives to grow a new host generation. Todo-kun is next in line in a famous family of exorcists, groomed with expectation to shoulder the lineage Tradition and carry it with honour: next in line to wear a uniform that doesn't quite agree with him", Mephisto explained to his stuffed unicorn with soft mirth playing in his voice. "Tradition is a form-fitting garment; and if the bearer doesn't fit the form, it will be uncomfortable to wear. What eats Todo-kun, as you put it, is the struggle between the collective mind of Tradition and the single mind of an heir unwilling to conform to it."

Shiro hadn't thought of that possibility. He'd known Saburota's red tapism and disturbing perfection must be cover for _something_, but he'd never thought to look past personal motivations and take into account the parameters surrounding him. Trouble with family, huh? Well, Shiro could relate… feeling trapped in a designated role and not wanting others to know…

He took a moment to inhale the night and taste the unfamiliar scents that lived in it. Mowed grass was the only one he could identify; it had become a favourite through work, and it smelled even richer when night dew saturated it. There were bats in the air, swishing soundlessly past the lone lamp that lit the baseball court for them, catching insects that-

"_Moths unto flame_", Shiro smiled as the light blinked yet again when a bat flew past. Yeah, there were more things than just the flame to be wary of, if you were prey. The night was full of demons; demons kept at distance by the flame that burnt white and black in its owner's heart. Such an irony… "Maybe you should bring that up with his family?" he suggested casually. "See if they're aware Saburota-senpai might not want to be an exorcist?"

"Heavens no", he dismissed without a moment's hesitation. "It isn't my place to voice opinions on family affairs."

Shiro crinkled his brow.

"You're just gonna leave him to feel miserable, then? Wasn't the welfare of your employees your topmost priority?"

"My my, such a compassionate young man~" he snickered. "Don't forget I'm a demon, Shiro." …he had. Again. It shouldn't be possible, but he did. "My appointment as Branch Director was controversial in itself, and came with as many restrictions as responsibilities. It's one thing to have a demon give humans orders, and organise their work: that, the Vatican can abide. A demon that counsels human families on how to raise their children – hoo~ that ice is too thin to tread. Besides, Todo-kun is a child no more." Mephisto's glance slid down into the corner of his eye, training the faint green glow on Shiro. "Every human is god in her own mind, with supreme authority to choose her own path in life: to heaven, to hell…" A lax smile stretched his lips and let the light fall on sharp fangs. "It always amused me to hear humans say Free Will is a blessing, when it could just as well be called a curse. Oh! On Friday, can we go to Mepphy Land?"

…was it any wonder Shiro forgot he was a demon, when half the time he behaved like a little kid?

"Eh, sorry, Friday won't be any good", he smiled sheepishly. "Kasumi is coming to True Cross, and we're gonna go on a date."

"Oh, I see~" And insinuation saturated every syllable from the wide, toothy smirk. "Well well, I shall find other ways to entertain myself, then."

"I'm sure you'll find ways to keep yourself busy", Shiro grinned back with just as much implication.

"I will most certainly be very busy", the demon agreed knowingly.

"Yeah, no doubt about that…" he snickered. "You can tell Carmilla I'm eating more fruit, but I still smoke like a chimney."

"Or I could send her over, to evaluate if the change in diet has made any difference~?"

"M-hm, right in Kasumi's face – you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Mephisto's bubbling laughter said that yes, yes, he would like that; and had vivid images in his mind of what chaos would entail such an encounter.

"Oh, but speaking of things I would like: I'm still waiting for payback for that dream you claim you didn't appreciate", he said with an expectant grin.

"I _didn't _appreciate it." Nope: he could feel his intestines squirm at the mere thought of it.

"Keep telling yourself that", he said sweetly. "I'm still waiting for retaliation~"

Shiro shook his head, scrubbing coarse hair back and forth against the hands folded under it.

"I'm not even gonna try, man. There's no way I could ever top you." Crap. That didn't sound right. "Top you for that." Still crap, judging by Mephisto's hooting laughter. "Top you _after _that…?" Yeah, he was almost falling off the divan now. "Top that… top the… top… what the fuck am I trying to say…?" he groaned and rubbed his tired eyes. Time to sleep, definitely.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Modus vivendi** means "way of living". At face value, that's it: the way you choose to live. As an expression, it denotes a compromise two disagreeing parties make that will allow them to coexist peacefully, even if they still disagree. Both meanings are applicable here, I think? =P **Red tapism** is too much official formality (the expression supposedly traces its roots to the red tape tied around important dossiers in government business in 16th-century Spain, so as to separate them from less important documents that were held together with common rope or string).


	45. 97: Star-crossed lovers

**A/N: Well, lookie! I just bought volume 10, and after reading through the Q&A section I realised I had to go back and change a couple of things: the number of Gehennian kings, and my theory on summoning in ch 84. It may mean I have gotten Shiro's abilities as Tamer wrong… but the fic's adherence to canon is already heavily flawed, so a little more won't make much difference. ^_^'**

The major flaw I'm talking about is Shiro's age: supposedly, he was about as young as Yukio was when he became an exorcist. (That volume wasn't out at the time I had begun writing… |'-D ) So my whole timeline is wrong, but… deleting everything I've done and starting from scratch would just be too much. x') I expect more inconsistencies like this, since the manga is still in the making, so… we'll have to live with the flaws, both you and I.

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Love makes people retarded. It's not a very flattering thing to say, but hell if it isn't true.

Especially at the Tanabata festival.

* * *

_Noble Tentei, Emperor of the Heavens, had everything a man of his standing could wish for. He had forests of jade and meadows of coral flowers, a garden with peaches that granted immortality, and garments whose beauty outshone that of a thousand dawns. It was Orihime, the seventh of the Emperor's nine daughters, who wove the fabric and made the clothes for him, and thus she was called the Weaving Maid._

_One day, Emperor Tentei found Orihime weeping by Amanogawa, the river of heaven. She grieved, she told him, that she had been so absorbed in her work that she had not had time to find love. This saddened Emperor Tentei immensely, and he arranged for his daughter to be wed to the young cowherd, Hikoboshi, who lived across the river._

_It was a marriage whose tenderness grew with time, like the sweetness of the peaches in the Emperor's garden. However, the Emperor himself was not happy. Orihime, who had put all her effort into weaving, was now spending time with her husband and neglected her duties. As punishment, the Emperor of the Heavens decided to separate the couple, and returned Hikoboshi to the other side of Amanogawa. Only once every year, on the seventh day of the seventh month, did Emperor Tentei let a boatman ferry his daughter over to her husband so that they could be together: if Orihime had put enough effort into her weaving. If not, he would make the river of heaven would flood, so that the boatman would not be able to make the journey across._

* * *

"But if that happens, she'll just 'ave some magpies make a bridge for 'er so she can walk across", Kasumi finished.

"How?"

"On their wings, o' course."

"…but wouldn't they be flapping their wings to stay airborne?"

"Just shut up, would ya?" She flicked the cross on his glasses string with a playful smile. "It's a fairytale: ye're not supposed ta think too much about the details."

"Alright, I'll shut up", he smiled back. "Now I see why you got that streamer. Cool thing, too."

"It's an umbrella, actually." She wiggled the rod that supported the flat shape of a fanciful magpie, whose tail consisted of long silk strips embroidered with green and blue. "Though it works better as a streamer."

* * *

A fairytale indeed. True Cross transformed during festivals, like the idiomatic caterpillar turned a butterfly. The sky drowned in bright banners and flags that clustered the air above the streets, climbing as high as to the sixth floor of the towering houses. Bridges became giant garlands strung from building to building, or arcing across the river like rainbow-scaled dragons.

The people transformed, too. Grey suits were left to hang in favour of yukatas, and humble housewives bloomed into the most exquisite flowers garbed in bright colours and coiffed hair. The festive spirit made eyes glow and drummed the city's excited heartbeat against the streets with the clop-clop of geta and running children. It was summer, it was festival, and life was beautiful.

Love does, indeed, make people retarded. Shiro couldn't remember when he had last been this happy, and he didn't really care to remember either. Happiness is a thing of the moment, like the jittery wings of a dragonfly, and is best enjoyed without thoughts of neither past nor future.

They watched the Taiko drummers on the central street parade, where it was so crowded the Kasumi had to climb up a lamppost to see. They watched the folk dancers that came next, and Shiro narrowly escaped her attempts to drag him in to dance with them: _she_ still danced, though, and let him enjoy the baffled faces of the performers.

They went to the big Shinto shrine north of the central district, where the air was thick with incense smoke that made his eyes water. They both wrote down wishes on coloured paper slips provided there, and hung them on the bamboo arrangement that had been put in the courtyard for the festival. Kasumi prayed for improved artisan skills; Shiro prayed for improved aim when shooting in motion.

"That's got nothing ta do with arts an' crafts!" she laughed when he'd told her.

"It could have", he defended through his freshly lit cigarette. "If I were really good at it, I could shoot patterns into the targets."

"Oh, I see: s'gotta be _manly _art, eh?" she grinned in that particular way that he found so cute yet promised hell for whoever underestimated her.

"Not _manly_, just…" He shrugged. "I'm a practical guy; art's just decorative."

That set her off laughing like it was the most hilarious thing in the world. People they met along the sidewalk cast their strange looks away from the lunatic – really, even when it was festival that stiff varnish of appropriateness stayed on…

"It's not the _result _ye're after when ye make art, dumbass! It's the _creation_! Why d'ya think I sell off all the stuff I make?" she asked with smiling eyes and gleaming teeth. "I like making it, but I don't wanna own it. It's like life, ya know?" She plucked a flower off a pot arrangement and tucked it into her hair. "Ye can shape it into whatever ya like, but once it's complete there's nothing left ta do but ta toss it inta the fire an' start again on something new."

"…but is it ever complete?" He tried to put it lightly, but the part of him that really did wonder still betrayed its presence. "Isn't life a sculpture we continue to shape till the bitter end?"

"Well put: the sculpture that's neva' finished. Might come a time when yer hands're too weak an' tremblin' ta shape it, though." She braided her fingers into his: not the slim fingers of a lady, but the hard, scarred ones of a woman who earned her living with her hands. "An' I guess that's when ye're done, whether ye're pleased with the result or not."

"I suppose it is like that – makes sense when you say it, at least, but that could be your persuasive skills." He got an elbow in his ribs for that, and almost collided with another couple in the street when he dodged. "About not owning stuff and such… I don't know, but I think I could like travelling roads the way you do." He flicked away a coal tar that had taken too much interest in his glasses string. "I'd like to try it, at least – if you're okay with me tagging along, that is?" Please, please, please…

"O' course!" she beamed. "Ye're family, ya dumbass. Besides, we could use somebody that looks normal. I'm not allowed in at public baths anymore, an' Shizzy gets accused o' stealing in grocery shops from time ta time, so ye could do the shopping an' fetchin' water", she chuckled wolfishly. "An' maybe cook the food while ye're at it…?"

"Yes, yes: and I could heat the water over fire and mix wild flowers into it before you bathe."

"And wash our clothes."

"Of course: and polish Shizu's piercings."

When they had come down to the details of how he'd strap a flowerpot onto his head, so he could grow flax and make oil to treat their carvings with, they were laughing so hard they had to support themselves on a bus stop.

"I think we've taken this far enough, haven't we?" Kasumi wheezed through her guffaws.

"Yeah, I think we have."

"Anyway, ye can tag along next time ye've got holidays, if ya like."

"Count me in."

* * *

Kasumi was the only person other than Mephisto that he made an exception for, and let his emotions roam free. With her, he _felt _free. Like there wasn't a care in the world. Like that impish smile turned all shadows bright and-

-turned eating dumplings into a chopstick fencing match.

"Oh, this means war."

"An' I'm winning it."

"You wish."

"No need ta wish if ye've got skill."

The battleground was a paper plate on a wobbly little folding table, and the last poor dumpling slipped around as chopsticks stabbed and were deflected.

"Banzai!" And while Shiro's chopsticks wrestled with hers, Kasumi's free hand plucked the needle out of her hair and skewered the dumpling. "I win!"

"That is _not _fair play!" he laughed.

"A girl's gotta make use of 'er assets~" She twirled her prize with a grin.

"That sounds… pervy."

"Yer mind makes it sound pervy", she returned with a playfully arced eyebrow. "Women have more assets than tits, ya know. We're smart, inventive, hard- working – an' considerate." She tipped the dumpling towards him.

"And you can make us guys eat out of your hands", he grinned as he leaned forward and bit off half of it, eyes locked with hers.

"An' we enjoy doing it~"

Love… makes people retarded. Shiro could've been ploughed down by a rickshaw and he wouldn't even have noticed: with the needle gone, Kasumi's hair unfolded onto her shoulders in a slow-motion fall. It was like she transformed before his eyes, became younger, softer… and when her lips slipped the remaining dumpling off the needle, Love and its raunchier relatives completely lobotomized Shiro's brain.

"Ye should see ye' face", she grinned, cheek puffed out with food. "I can read eeevery thought in ye' head, ya know~"

"…I need to figure out if there's any assets guys have that can counter the effect of women's", he laughed into his hands as he tried to wipe the daydream off his face.

"No, don't do that – the brain-deadness is what makes guys so cute!"

"I don't wanna be cute!"

"Tough luck, 'cause ye are, Fuji~"

* * *

Dusk fall lit myriads of lanterns on the city's streets and bridges; lanterns hung with streamers until they looked like gigantic, colourful jellyfish swimming in the breeze. There wouldn't be any stars to watch, neither _Weaving Maid_ nor _Cowherd_ constellation. Instead, the black river cast the billowing lantern reflections up at the clouds.

They crept down over the stone riverbank, down to the streak of quiet darkness that was barricaded on both sides by tents and stands and the smell of food. …and at the docks, the water clicked its wet tongue and lapped at an armada of small chokkibune that lay waiting to ferry festival visitors out on the river.

Shiro helped her into the boat, the geta being a bit too unfamiliar on her feet to let her jump from the bridge. It wobbled slightly on the water, sending a warning jolt through his gut. It might not be too romantic to get motion sick on a date…

…but love makes people retarded.

Shimmering lantern light licked softly over the boat's sides as it clove the waters, propelled at steady speed by the boatman's ro. The sound of music and voices rolled down the riverbanks with a muffled effect, as if it were but a lively backdrop to their private sphere: a sphere where Kasumi's body heat breathed through his clothes…

This was too good. Fairytale material. Romance didn't happen like this in real life. _Nothing _could work out this perfectly in real life.

…and in response to his lack of faith in the universe, the river of heaven flooded. Pinprick ringlets spread on the water; few at first, then more and more until the smooth surface had turned into a hissing porcupine hide.

"Seems there's only one magpie to get Orihime to Hikoboshi tonight", Shiro smiled as Kasumi huddled close to him to shelter them both under her impractical umbrella. "Where did you get this thing anyway?"

"Bought it from an umbrella maker I know in town. 'e's brilliant, 'e is: a genius, but business is always bad 'cause he keeps makin' these outrageous designs that barely cover even one person." She cast an eye up at the bird-shape that sprawled above them and dripped a steady stream of water on her yellow yukata sleeve. "As a fellow craftsman I kinda feel I should help out so the kid can eat, at least."

"Hmm I think I should thank the guy for making his outrageous designs", he smirked and sneaked his arm around Kasumi: to fit them in better under the umbrella, of course.

"Bet ye're in league with each other", she laughed, sound bouncing off the water like the pelting raindrops. "'e's a ladies' man, just like you – an' his name's Shiro, too!"

"Whoa, you mean I've got a doppelgänger…?"

"What's that?"

Ah, that's right. One of those words he'd picked up from Mephisto.

"Means you've got a double, or an identical twin that isn't your biological one", he said, quietly thanking Emperor Tentei for making it rain. "It's German, I think."

"Well, ye're nothing alike. Umbrella-Shiro's got long black hair an' looks kinda like a girl."

"And luckily, you prefer Shiros with pink hair."

"Yep~" She leaned into his embrace, and set his heart flittering madly in his chest. "Which reminds me: I heard ye' horseshit prank went well. So ye're expecting payback from Pheles now, or…?"

Shiro burst out laughing, so loud it echoed off a bridge that hid in the grey veil ahead of them.

"No, he's already paid me back for that. You're not gonna believe me", he chuckled, scratching his hair in slight embarrassment. "He made me come along for shopping, to carry his bags."

"Doesn't sound that bad…?"

"No – until he went shopping for underwear." Yep, that was a tad too shameless even for Kasumi, who tried to hide her embarrassment in her hand – and looked absolutely adorable in the process. "You've noticed those tights he wears to his principal's uniform, right? Well, they're not tights. They're stockings. Like, lady underwear stockings." Kasumi doubled over in uncontrolled laughing spasms, and Shiro had to bend with her or get a shower of water inside his collar. "And he made me stand there in front of the personnel and help him decide which colours to choose. I thought I was gonna die of shame right there."

They laughed, as only retarded young lovers can do, and the rain persisted; a steady pelt that whipped evening mist out of the water and merged river, banks and sky into a haze of pearl grey. The cool ate through the light clothing they both wore, and they huddled closer yet. Tiny droplets nested in Kasumi's sun- bleached hair, glistening in the dim light of lanterns floating through from another world. Another world where demons were stretching their claws and rising to claim the night hours.

Tch, like Mephisto's stupid fairytale references. Shiro wasn't Sleeping Beauty, no, he was Cinderella: allowed to go to the ball, but only for a limited time. He receded inwards, disconnected his mind from emotion and sharpened it into an alert, unforgiving ring wall. Put on the mask. Paint on the smile. Act the role of a lifetime and hope Kasumi didn't notice anything off. Maybe he could blame his stiffness on being tired? Maybe he could-

"I really like ya, Shiro", she whispered into his shoulder, through the susurrus rain; through his callousness and through his heart. "I never thought I'd fall in love, but…" Her arm untangled from the wet fabric and slid around his waist. "With you it just feels right."

Yes, it felt right; and that feeling flooded him like wildfire. He loved her, loved her so much his heart could burst, and-

"I love you", he breathed, surrendering himself to the sweet intoxication of the feeling. "I really love you."

* * *

…and what better way to end a day of celebrating true love, than by escaping the rain in a cinema seat and watch a young woman kick ass? Shiro did admit, he liked the _Sister Street Fighter _series: he just hadn't expected Kasumi to like them, too. Then again, he could easily picture her replacing Shihomi Etsuko as the main character: just as cool, and just as cute.

…problem being, the poster with _Sister Street Fighter: Fifth Level Fist_ was taped over with a handwritten sign that said SOLD OUT.

"Well, guess we'll hav'ta go check what other films they show the next hour."

Sure, but… come on! What were the odds? Celebrating couples didn't go out to watch action films! How could every single ticke-

Oh, there was _one _possibility…

Shiro patted Kasumi on the shoulder and signalled for her to give him a moment. He trotted over to the ticket booth, where a bulldog-cheeked man fit narrowly in amongst the shelves of snacks and beverages, and donned the professional look he had perfected for giving first-year students wrong directions.

"Good evening, sir. I have a message to deliver to Mr. Faust", he said in formal tones and hoped he wasn't wrong. "I'm aware it's past office hours, but my employer insisted that it be delivered urgently." He waved a folded festival programme impatiently, too quickly for the vendor to read what it said. "Business- men are always keen on doing business, you know?"

Bingo. The bulldog-cheeked man hobbled out of his booth through a side door, and motioned for them to follow him. Theatre number two appeared to be their destination, and when the deep brown door opened they were struck by the sickeningly sweet smell of sugar- and caramel-coated popcorns. The man bowed with some effort and moved to let them pass: good thing, for if he had peered into the theatre he would've caught Mr. Faust sprawled comfortably in a pink armchair that hovered above the empty seats.

"Fancy meeting you here", Shiro smirked as he trotted in, gratefully relaxing all his inner defences. "I thought you were gonna be busy all day?"

"I have been busy all day", he confirmed in their two-man lingo. "I'm here to take a well-earned break from my hard work. Why, and a pleasure to meet you, Miss Honda."

"Pleasure ta meet you too, Sir Pheles", she replied and mirrored his nod. From the way she seemed to bite the insides of her cheeks, Shiro guessed she was thinking about stockings.

He wasn't wearing any now, though. It was a holiday, after all, and he'd slipped himself into an extremely glossy, blue yukata patterned with monkshood.

"Mind if we join you?" Shiro held out the yen notes he'd intended to pay their tickets with.

"Not at all~" He tucked the money into his obi with a pleasant smile. "And how has your day been? Busy…?"

"Yeah, we've been at it all day", Kasumi replied, and forced Shiro to keep his facial muscles in check. Oh god, she had no idea… "It's been great, though. Heh, an' it seems I'll be stealin' yer janitor away next holiday. Say, a little bird tells me ye spar tagether?" She leaned onto the backrests of the sixth row and crossed her legs. "Think ya could do somethin' bout 'is stamina before I take 'im out on the roads? As it is, 'e's pretty awful."

Yeah – compared to a pilgrim that walked Honshu from tip to tip every year!

"I know." Kasumi didn't know Mephisto well enough to detect the lewd undertone in that response, but Shiro did. "He's a stubborn young man, though. I've tried to my wit's extent to persuade him that we should work on his stamina – brought in help from experts, even – but he simply won't submit."

No, no, _no_, he was _not _bringing up the succubus-incident on an occasion like this…!

"Perhaps you would have better success convincing him?" said Mephisto as an Idea – one that made Shiro's stomach drop down into his pelvis – flashed over the green eyes. "After all, nothing beats a sweetheart's tongue. I could show you a few exercises that I think he would agree to, and that would help improve his stamina."

What the _hell _was that old goat implying…?!

"Sounds good ta me." Yeah, if you didn't have a clue what stamina the asshole of a demon was talking about! "s'it advanced stuff, or something ye could show me tenight?"

No no no hell no there had to be some way of-

"The difficulty can be adjusted depending on how well he takes to it, but I could definitely go through the basics with you tonight. After the film, we could- ow! Ill-bred, idiotic…!"

The panda, which was being generously fed on lollipop wraps, had leapt to catch the expertly aimed paper ball Shiro had shot at Mephisto's head.

"I just made up my mind: I wanna train to improve my stamina." He glared daggers at the _criminally _smug smirk that crept up on the demon's face. "And since Kasumi won't be here at all times, I'd prefer to train with you."

"Really~?"

There were many things Shiro would have liked to do there and then. Sadly, there was only one option that wouldn't look strange to Kasumi.

"Yes, _really._"

* * *

Shiro cooled his temper during the film, which was quite enjoyable. Afterwards, they parted ways for the night. When they had said goodbye to Kasumi, Mephisto gave him a ride back to the Academy; and once there, the demon fished out an envelope from within his cape.

"I didn't want to mention it in front of your sweetheart, but~ the invitation does include a Mrs. Faust, if she wants to come."

Suspicious, on so many levels: the furtive smirk, the strange hint, the expensive envelope paper…

"If 'Mrs. Faust' will have to wear a dress, she just might yank off her husband's beard", he informed curtly as he flipped out his knife to open the mysterious letter.

"I think you'd look better in formal suit; especially with that charming hair colour."

"You know, my knife just might slip if you-" The creamy paper unfolded in his hands, as expensive and important-looking as the envelope. "No way!" No way, no way, no way – he had to read it several times… but the stupid grin never left his lips. "Hell yeah, Mrs. Faust is coming along!"

* * *

**A/N:**

That** love makes people retarded **was observed by a popular Norwegian comic character called _Nemi_, in the strip with the same name, drawn by Lise Myhre.

**Tanabata **is a festival of the weaving spirit, beautiful fabric and true love, commemoratingan originally Chinese legend called _The Cowherd and the Weaving Maid_. Those are actually two stars, Altair and Vega, and the river of heaven is the Milky Way. Tanabata is celebrated on the 7th day of the 7th month, when the moon forms a crescent shape and thus can act as a boat to let them meet, but it seems like dates vary: some regions begin celebrations as early as 1st of July, and some don't celebrate until 8th of August. So, eh, no exact date for the True Cross region: beginning of July-ish.

(…yep, Mephisto asked Shiro out to Mepphy Land on a festival celebrating true love. x) )

**Chokkibune **is a kind of water taxi that was used in the Edo period.

**Ro **is a special type of single oar that appears to be very difficult to handle properly: but if you can, a single oarsman can allegedly manoeuvre a boat weighing well over a tonne with ease.

**Shiro the umbrella maker**… If you haven't read a manga titled _Adekan_, I strongly recommend you do. I'd say it's a sort of heir to _Pet Shop of Horrors_ in the way it's told: short stories that combine into a greater one, featuring a beautiful mix of humour, horror and message (and so much hinted BL that your eyes will catch fire). Literally beautiful: I have never seen artwork as stunning as Nao Tsukiji's. 0_0


	46. 98: Miss Freud

**A/N: Loooong ago, I had a PM-exchange with ****_wildkurofang_**** that gave me an idea. =3 So here it is. Very stupid, but I had to find something  
for Shiro to do at that place.**

Swedes can be very bad at English: for some inexplicable reason, many of our everyday words overlap phonetically with English dirty words.  
So this is a crash-course in Swenglish, and all the examples given are 100% authentic. xD

**You are hereby warned **that there will be dirty words used, and that they will be used in ways you (hopefully) haven't come across before. There is a  
glossary at the bottom, but I hope you will restrain yourselves and read through the chapter without it for the same wtf-reactions Shiro experiences.

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

True Cross Academy was bigger. True Cross Academy was more elegant. Still, True Cross Academy had never made Shiro feel what he felt before the mastodon  
chunk of glass and steel. The brown shoebox of a building may have been ugly, but it filled his gut with flame-winged butterflies.

"I thought it would look different", he said as the pink limousine drove another meter forward in the long queue of gaudy cars. "Imperial Theatre sounds like a  
much fancier building."

"And it was; before some tasteless ingrate of a bureaucrat decided it should be demolished and replaced with this mediocre cube." Something Mephisto seemed  
to take as a personal insult, judging by how he crinkled his nose. "Thankfully the inside retains some degree of flair."

…uncomfortable. Uncomfortable, uncomfortable, uncomfortable: Shiro would never grasp why it was necessary to dress up in such suits. And bow ties…? Was  
there even a point to bow ties, or were they just for making the shirt collar scratch his neck?

"Fidgety, are we?" Mephisto observed in that special kind of voice that gave him away as an older brother. "Relax, Shiro. Act natural and you will look natural."

"How do I act natural in this?" He gestured at the suit Mephisto had forced him to rent. "I'm a throw-away street kid; this is as far from natural as I get."

"Confidence, little lion~" The finger that landed on the tip of Shiro's nose was clothed in the burgundy gloves he'd bought when they went shopping, to go  
with the scarf he wore outside a purple-striped suit and some god-awful ruffled shirt. "Clothes make the man, but it takes a man of confidence to make  
the clothes. One can look dashing in anything if you believe you do."

Shiro took in Mephisto's appearance in one glance – purple stripes, burgundy scarf, frilly shirt and burgundy bow tie – and reluctantly admitted that there  
might be some truth to the claim.

"Right." He peered out the tinted window and adjusted his bow tie, only to have Mephisto adjust it again when he did it wrong. "Our turn next, yes?" They'd  
be dropped off on a red carpet? Damn, this was- "_Relax_", he told himself as the limousine pulled closer to the entrance. "_Welcome to the VIP world, act like  
you belong._" …easier said than done.

The July heat hit him physically when he disembarked the car, and the butterflies flitted wildly in his gut. Pink hair and formal suit – god, he looked ridiculous.  
He could feel them from all around; the needling eyes of people who _did _belong, people who _did _have their own suits, people who stripped his pretence right  
off with a single glance and dismissed him as-

"O-oi…!"

But Mephisto merely shot him a smirk glinting with mischief and continued to drag him along the red carpet. Arm in arm. Smack in the middle of Tokyo. _Hell no_.  
Flustered, Shiro matched his pace and unhooked himself from the demon.

"And that didn't make this any less embarrassing", he muttered under his breath and tried to erase the scene from time by pretending it never happened.

"Dithering doesn't become you, little lion", he said with the same expectant bounce in his voice as he had in his step. "What happened to charging heedlessly  
into battle, hmm~? We have many a battle ahead of us this evening; many a foreign territory to raid and conquer by the twofold law that all is fair in love  
and war~!"

Oh, no need to worry about looking embarrassing when Mephisto was around. The flamboyant principal became the main attraction the moment he stepped  
onto the red carpet, and owned the show every step of the way up to the glass doors below the giant banderol:

_Miss International 1976_

* * *

…there was no telling if this was heaven, or hell. The VIP seats let them see everything on the grand stage, where the world's most beautiful women lined up  
time and again, like a mouth-watering buffet that Shiro was allowed to see but not taste; the national costume parade, the evening gowns, oh _god_, and the  
_swimsuits_…! He couldn't tell which one he liked best – it was such an onslaught on his senses that he very nearly suffered a nosebleed over Miss France. How  
did Mephisto put up with this? It was bad enough a temptation for a human – what wouldn't it be like for a demon?

"_I'm never gonna criticize his restraint again_", he thought, shooting a quick glance at his friend. Mephisto kept a perfectly composed demeanour, outwardly,  
but there was a… a _heat _roiling in his presence that made Shiro think of large predators coiling up before pouncing on prey. "_Can't be easy, that._"

When the break was announced, people rose to file out into the foyer for some air. Mephisto rose, too, but meandered out to the side aisle in the direction  
opposite to the rest.

"Oi, Mephisto – where are we going?" Shiro felt a little like a chick anxiously following the mother hen, but this was Mephisto's home ground more than his.

"Johann", he said over the shoulder, stopping for a trail of guests to pass.

"What about him?"

"Officially, I am Johann Faust the fifth: headmaster, businessman, and multi-millionaire", he said with a wink. "The masks one has to wear in public, you know?"

"Got it. Johann." ...no, it didn't feel right on his tongue. "Where are we going?"

* * *

VIP. Three letters that open doors to the land of milk and honey. The parlour spread deep red carpeting at their feet, muffling all sound of polished dress shoes  
and high heels. Soft, warm light saturated the room from lamps concealed behind tinted glass panels, mounted on sequoia walls with patterns like frozen flames  
embedded in the wood. The room wasn't that large, but the high ceiling dotted with spotlight stars gave the impression they were in a grand castle hall.

It was like watching tv. Gorgeous dresses on even more gorgeous women, and dapper men in formal suits with drinks in hand; nodding, smiling, circulating  
between groups or filing along the buffet tables that shyly pushed up against the walls. It wasn't something that existed in real life. It was so far removed from  
anything Shiro had seen in his life. It was-

"_Not fair…!_"

*bonk* *bonk* *bonk*

Access to the VIP-room, yes. Mingling with all the misses, yes. Did they speak Japanese? No.

*bonk* *bonk* *bonk*

Shiro had found a suitable, secluded niche near one of the emergency exits, where he could wallow in self-pity without anybody wondering why he was head-  
butting a wall.

"Just what are you doing…?"

Shiro let his forehead rest against the red, mottled wood and turned his head to shoot a dismal look at Mephisto, who'd just come out of the nearby lavatories.

"I'm in a room with forty-five of the world's most beautiful women, and the only one I can speak to is Miss Japan. And what are _you _doing? Isn't that-"

The women's lavatories? Why yes. And it was most likely a woman's lip-gloss that he was wiping off his chin with an embroidered handkerchief.

"I'm practicing my French", he replied with a charming wink.

"With Miss Venezuela?" Shiro observed, and gave him a knowing smirk as said Miss discreetly snuck out from the same lavatories. So much for Mephisto's  
restraint.

"French is an appreciated tongue regardless of nationality." Oh yes, Shiro could imagine that tongue was very appreciated… "Why don't you seize the oppor-  
tunity to freshen up your English, rather than abuse the walls? The lovely Miss America over there is the same age as you."

"No way: I'm not gonna make an idiot of myself by trying to chat with someone who's spoken English all her life." Even if she did indeed look lovely, with those  
heavy curls hugging her face.

Mephisto snickered softly, the way you do at recalcitrant little children – the only thing missing was the patronizing pat on the head. Shiro did feel like a dumb  
kid, though. He'd never had any problem approaching girls; but girls had never had any problem understanding Japanese. One doesn't realise just how much  
humans depend on language until it's taken from you – or how quickly confidence evaporates when you can't communicate what you mean.

"That leaves another forty girls that aren't native speakers either." Mephisto scanned the parlour with pursed lips, gaze drifting idly from one young woman to  
the other. "Blondes or brunettes?"

"_Am I at a beauty pageant or a brothel…?_" There didn't seem to be any difference, from a demon's point of view. "I'm Japanese: all I've ever seen is girls with  
black hair, or bleached hair", he said with a shrug.

"Hmm~ something exotic, then… Oh, I know just the thing~" His face lit up like a candle. "Here we go!" he beamed, and grabbed Shiro's wrist.

Oh this wasn't going to end well, not at all, not with that happy look on Mephisto's face. They passed the long line of buffet tables, where Mephisto put a glass  
of rosé wine in his hand – "The best cure for nervous hands is to occupy them with something~" – and zigzagged between guests over the deep red carpeting  
while Shiro tried to gather his quivering nerve ends together. This would be a piece of cake. Just talking, right? Just practicing English. No harm in that. Nothing  
to be nervous about. Not at all.

"_I'm gonna screw up._" Yep. "_Act natural my ass – pretending to be confident isn't gonna magically teach me to speak better English._"

Did Mephisto give half a damn about that? Nope. He dragged him across the parlour like a too lively dog eager to share an especially exciting find with its owner.

"_…maybe he is. He's enjoying himself._" And royally so. But more importantly, Shiro realised, while staring up at the bobbing hair curl: "_He wants me to enjoy  
myself._"

Why yes. Mephisto had invited him into this extravagant world of celebrities and luxury because it was outside Shiro's comfort zone, surely: but also because  
he wanted him there. He wanted to spend time with him – _enjoyed _spending time with him… Shiro's gaze wandered downwards, over the hairs that curved  
sharply from the nape of Mephisto's neck, and landed on the burgundy glove that held his wrist in a paradox: firm as concrete, and gentle as butterfly wings.  
The touch of a demon that didn't want to harm humans.

"_You did the same with Johann: snuck into the Emperor's harem, stole food off the Pope's table, raised hell just for the fun of it…_" For twenty-four years: longer  
than Shiro had been alive. Long enough to be called a lifetime. Long enough to forge bonds that could never be replaced. "_Am I just repeating-_"

Without even meaning to, Shiro looked away from the hand holding his. It was uncomfortable, those matters he had no right to pry into; and yet his ever-  
curious thoughts wandered there whenever he let them stray from a given track.

Was he really Mephisto's friend? Or was he a reflection of the friend he'd lost…?

"Who's that?" Shiro asked, giving his thoughts a new track to run. There was an auburn-haired girl, a textbook wallflower, who stood by herself and plucked  
slowly with untouched hors d'oeuvres. She looked like she wanted nothing more than to fade through the wall: Shiro kinda felt he could relate.

"Miss New Zealand, I think – but that's not important. There's a young lady over here that you should meet. God kväll, fröken Törnkvist", Mephisto said in a  
melodious language Shiro had never heard. A slender, honey-blonde girl turned in surprise, revealing dark-shaded eyes bluer than a clear summer sky. Rows  
of bangles jingled on her wrists, and in her surprise she didn't notice that the plate she held was ti-

"Försiktigt", Mephisto admonished softly, having caught her hand, and steadied the plate. His gentlemanly charm wasn't quite on highest effect, but not far  
from it; the girl visibly turned into putty under his gaze.

"God kväll", she echoed hesitantly and made a strange, bobbing motion in her knees. "Tack ska ni ha, öh, herr…?"

"My name is Johann Faust", he replied with a polite bow, switching languages effortlessly. "Could I trouble you to speak English? My Swedish hasn't been in  
use for a while, and I think my nephew would find it a great opportunity to practice."

Sky-blue eyes settled on Shiro, and the butterflies in his gut confirmed that he did indeed like exotic blondes.

"Your nephew?" She looked from one to the other – how the hell did Mephisto expect to pass them off as relatives? – and broke into a smile that was coy and  
unabashedly bright all at once. "You don't look like each other at all."

"I wonder which one of us is most grateful for that?" Mephisto smiled back. "You must pardon me; I don't know your full name…?"

"Oh." She faced Shiro and made the same bobbing motion again. "My name is Marie-Louise Törnkvist."

"My name is Fujimoto Shiro", he said, awkwardly repeating what she had done – it seemed to be the Swedish equivalent of a bow.

"That's women's way of greeting", Mephisto informed with a merry chuckle, and gave him a light pat in the back. "Men bow in Sweden, too." Lovely, he'd  
already made an ass of himself… "Good icebreaker, though", he added furtively in Japanese. "Well", and back to dapper English, "I merely wanted to express  
my appreciation properly. Both my nephew and I are rooting for you, miss. There is a certain natural grace that comes with the modesty of the North, and I  
think that is precisely what this kind of contest needs: natural beauty." Such a smarmy bastard… and yet somehow he pulled it off. How the heck did he do  
that? "Now, I think I will have treat myself to some of the other delicacies in the buffet, before they run out – excuse me~"

Pushing the chick out of the nest and hoping it can fly, huh?

"Forgive my uncle: he is special", he said in English that he hoped wasn't too accented. "_…says the guy with pink hair_", he groaned mentally. "This idea is his,  
too." He ruffled the spiky mess demonstratively with an excusing smile. "And this." He touched the crosses that hung on his glasses string. "But we does- we  
do… think you should have the crown."

"Oh, thank you kindly." And without warning, she reached out and felt his hair. "I'm so envious of Japanese hair. It's so thick and strong." Seeing the baffled  
look on his face, she pulled her hand back quickly. "Åh, sorry. I forget, you Japanese are much more polite."

"I'm not very polite", he said truthfully, smiling as he did. "But you surprised me. Japanese girls don't act like this."

"And Swedish men don't act like you", she smiled back with a perfect set of white teeth. "Is it rude if I ask how old you are?"

"No. I'm nineteen." Not what she had expected, from the looks of it. "How old you thought I was?"

"I'm sorry… I thought you were fifteen at most", she said between multiple shy excuses. "It's so hard to tell age on Asians. …how old do you think I am?"

Shiro's guess was closer than hers had been, but he was surprised to hear she was as "old" as twenty-one.

"I actually had to show my leg to be let in here", she told him with a merry laugh. "The guard didn't believe me when I said how old I was."

…it struck him as somewhat strange that one could tell a Swede's age by looking at her legs, but he didn't know much about Sweden and assumed that  
people there could be rather different from the Japanese.

Furthermore, he learnt that the Miss could play the guitar, had one younger sister, and she was going to become a nurse. He also learnt that it was a great  
difference between seeing a girl on stage, or in magazines, and seeing her in real life. In real life there suddenly was a personality, besides the pretty exterior,  
and his subconscious had somehow never thought of that.

Shiro quickly decided that he liked how the Swedish melody came through in her English: it made him less self-conscious about his own accent, and it gave  
her speech a pleasant rising and falling quality, like birdsong. Much of the conversation came to be about the differences between their countries. Shiro's sole  
experience with countries outside Japan was his short sojourn in Rome, but talking with Marie-Louise made him realise just _how _different places can be…

"You say you aren't polite, but compared to a Swedish nineteen-year-old you're a swear-mother's dream", she said, gesturing at him with a hosomaki sushi  
that she held with her bare fingers. "Swedish young men are terrible. They curse and drink and rape. No manners."

"That… sounds terrible", he agreed awkwardly: compared to _that_, he must come off as extremely polite. "It make me sad to hear."

"It is. I like the Japanese: you have much better manners. And you have such wonderful cocks", she said, swallowing the sushi almost whole while Shiro tried  
to keep himself from going beetroot red. He'd _heard _that Swedes were supposed to be "free-spirited", but he hadn't expected this degree of… free-spiritedness.

"Um… thank you?" he tried, not sure if he wanted to have this kind of conversation in public. "I… really liked your dress, Mari-Rouisu-san. The blue one at  
stage – but this one is very nice also, of course." The one she wore was a knee-length one with bright flower-patterns. It looked out-of-place among the  
glossy evening gowns, but then again so did Shiro's hair.

"I should have worn the same dress I had on stage, but…" she lowered her voice with a shy yet impish look on her face. "It got stuck in the cunt when I  
went up on stage", she tittered. "It broke a little, so I had to switch when I came down. I just hope it didn't show on stage."

"Uh, no. No, it didn't show", he said into his glass, sipping some wine to buy time to get his face straight – what kind of person _tells _people about such a  
mishap?! "Good you had other clothes for wear."

"Well, we were all given a fuck backstage under rehearsals, so I had some clothes left there." …and Shiro almost spat his wine back into the glass. "I still can't  
believe I'm here. It's like a drea- sorry, how are you?"

"I'm fine", he croaked, coughing and patting his chest to make the alcohol take a u-turn out of his windpipe. "Just fine." Nope, not making an idiot of himself  
at all.

"Precisely what a Swedish guy would say", she smiled, although it looked like she tried not to. "But it will pass over. Say, you must have just finished school,  
right? What do you do now? Work?"

"I study. I will become doctor." …of sorts.

"Oh, wow – that needs very high marks." Her pink lips formed an impressed o. "It's very difficult to become doctor in Sweden. It must be even harder in Japan…?"

"It is, but I was number six best in my school", he smiled through watering eyes, having brought the worst of his cough under control.

"Wow! You must be so smart! Oh, sorry – I don't mean that I think you _weren't _smart, I just didn't know how smart you were", she excused hurriedly. Just  
how…? How could _one_ girl be both extremely worried about offending somebody, and extremely open about other things…?

"Is okay", he smiled. "I was not always smart, so when I heard news, I celebrated to morning. I had never think I would have success like this."

"It sounds like me when I was told I would go to Miss International in Japan." Bracelets jingled when she pushed a lock of honey-blonde hair behind her ear.  
"They took me on the bed when they told me - it was wonderful. I couldn't stop crying, and my mum sucked at me, but it was wonderful. I get too see the  
world!" she laughed with shining white teeth, and raised her glass. "Cheers to our successes, Mr. Shiro?"

Shiro clinked his glass against hers with a smile he hoped wasn't too artificial. Just what the _hell_…?

"Anno…" He had no real idea what to say after their little toast, but settled for the obvious. "Shiro is given name. Fujimoto is family name."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Yeah, it seemed like Swedes were either sorry or horny, in some case of highly bizarre bipolarity. "When you presented yourself, I thought…  
You say your last name first, and your first name last?"

Shiro had to take that sentence apart, to be absolutely sure, but confirmed after a moment that yes; that was how people introduced themselves in Japan.

"So I should call you Mr. Fujimoto, then."

"No, not… Is too sharp." Oh dear, how would he explain this…? "Don't touch lip and tooths when you say 'fu'. Just wind." He'd never be able to say 'breath'  
and make it intelligible. "Like this." He left a narrow gap between his lips and blew a stream of air between them. "Only wind, no tooths. Fujimoto."

"Fujimoto", she repeated, correctly.

"Hai. Yes, Marie-Rouisu-san."

She beamed at him, dimples digging into her cheeks when she smiled, and then returned the challenge:

"In Sweden we present ourselves with our own name first and family name last."

"Oh. Then I should call you the other name." Whatever that had been. Something crisp with too many consonants together. "Ta… Taanvitsu?"

"Törnkvist."

Oh god…

"Taankuvisto?" he articulated with his whole face, trying to wrestle down the foreign phonemes.

"Almost", she encouraged with some sort of polite amusement. "_Törn_kvist."

"Te… Töönkuvisto? Töönkuvisto-san?" She nodded enthusiastically at that. "Swedish people have hard names", he chuckled helplessly, running a hand through  
his hair out of habit.

"It's because we have more pricks than others."

Just when it couldn't get more awkward…

"Uh… women, too…?" He _hoped _he'd misunderstood that, but Swedes didn't seem to have any qualms at all about speaking of such things.

"Oh yes." Same enthusiastic nod. What the hell was wrong with this person? "I have two pricks, but one can have more."

"But… your dress was stuck on stage…?" And she had been on stage in a _swimsuit, _and just what the flying fuck…?

"Sorry, I don't think I understand." Oh, she wasn't the only one… "What did you ask about my dress…?"

…and even if he didn't fulfil the technical requirements for a guardian angel, Mephisto did fill the practical function of one when Shiro spotted him in the  
corner of his eye.

"Excuse me, Töönkuvisto-san. My uncle wants me. It was nice talking with you."

He bowed, she curtsied, and Shiro left the bizarre conversation to trot over to Mephisto and the hors d'oeuvres at the buffet. He seemed fine as a fish in  
water, whistling anime openings to himself as he balanced a plate on his spread fingertips and loaded it with a steadily growing tower of food.

"So~ how was Miss Törnkvist?"

"…very exotic."

* * *

When they returned to the Academy late that night, Shiro found a note tucked in under his dorm room door.

_Ahoy there, Fuji!_

_I was passing True Cross on the way and thought I'd stop by, but it seems I missed you. Well, we both did. Shizzy composed a haiku for you instead, so here_  
_you go!_

_See you at the next crossroad, as the saying goes. Or that might just be our saying? Shizzy says it's not a real idiom, and he's a know-it-all when it comes to  
language: but I'm his big sister, so I'm always right._

_See you at the next crossroad!_

_- Kasumi_

_Pink bloom falls in spring  
It does not spring up in fall  
Unless it's stupid_

_- Shizuku_

* * *

**A/N: …and that's Swenglish for you. =P**

**Glossary**

_**leg**_ is short for "legitimation", the equivalent of an ID (you wouldn't believe how many Swedes that make this mistake when they speak English).  
**  
****_svärmor_** is Swedish for _mother-in-law_, but translates literally as "swear-mother": the mother you're sworn family to, as opposed to the mother you have a  
biological connection to. A "swear-mother's dream" is the term for a man (usually) who has all the qualities a mother wants her daughter's husband to have.  
**  
****_rapa _**means _to burp_, but it's much closer at hand to turn it into _rape_.  
**  
****_kock _**is Swedish for _chef_, and sounds very similar to _cock_. Care for a linguistic elaboration on that? The difference in sound is that cock goes farther back in  
the mouth – which I suppose shows that Freud is indeed ubiquitous. x')  
**  
****_kant _**means _edge_, and sounds like _cunt_ when spoken. And yes, we do say that something sticks _in _an edge. Prepositions are treacherous little things.  
**  
****_fack_** sounds like _fuck_, andhas several meanings: the one valid here is _box_, of the locker-kind you'd find at a train station.  
**  
****_bli tagen på sängen _**is an expression that translates word for word as _to be taken on the bed_, but it equals _to be caught off guard_. What we mean is that  
you're caught by surprise when sleeping. (…although, shift the accent in "tagen" _ever so slightly _and you will end up with the Freudian meaning in Swedish,  
too. Don't ever attempt this as a learner of Swedish: the difference is so small you wouldn't be able to hear it, but a Swede would.)  
**  
****_sucka _**means _to sigh_, and in the past tense it's _suckade_, so yeah… _sucked_.

**_prick _**means _dot_, here referring to the dotted letters å ä ö. This lovely frog jumped from the mouth of a representative for Göta Bank, which had changed  
name to Gota Bank to simplify international relations. The man in question claimed: "We are the same guys as before although we have lost our pricks."

**_Törnkvist _**(lit. _Thorn-twig_, a pretty common surname) has a mute r in standard Swedish, which is why Shiro's pronunciation-attempt looks he way it does.  
It's the same type of difference you get in (British) English, if you add an r to _bun _and notice how the vowel sound changes into _burn _without leaving any  
trace of an r.

**Miss International **is a real competition, of course. It's one of the four largest beauty pageants in the world, held annually in Tokyo's Imperial Theatre. I'm  
not using the real Swedish contestant, for obvious reasons. =P

**What happened to Miss New Zealand?**  
I must say, beauty pageants have the worst documentation I have ever come across. You'd think there would be photographs of everything, no? There aren't.  
Lists of contestants? If you're _very _lucky.

There was a contestant from New Zealand in the semi-finals in 1976. Who? Well, check the "documentation" and you'll find that the NZ contestant in one of  
the world's biggest beauty pageants was: unknown. Seriously. You can make it to the semi-finals in Miss International, be on stage in front of thousands of  
people, and nobody knows your name? 0_0' Those of you who live in NZ: could you find some explanation to this, and still a poor writer's curiosity?


	47. 99: One night stand

**A/N: This is where ****_The End of the Beginning_**** technically reaches 100 chapters**. This is the point where I start mentioning which chapters events  
relate back to, if you would like to go back and freshen up your memory. I'm horrible, that way, I know. Things connect back and forth in time when I write.  
All for the sake of complexity and re-read value. ^_^'

**Dedicated to Doodle and Mickey: my brother and brother-in-law respectively.**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Girls, games, and a good friend's company: what more could one ask of life?

They had spent yet another evening battling at arcade games; and after a marathon-match in _Pong, _which left them both seeing pixelated shadow balls bouncing over their fields of vision afterwards, Shiro had to treat Mephisto to supper. Or breakfast?

"Night snack", the demon concluded as they strolled side by side down the lit avenue. The night market lay ahead, admiring its shining reflection in the pond next to it. It was well past midnight, and clothes and toys were being hauled in from their racks. The food carts were still open, though, hoping to serve shopkeepers that might want something to fill their bellies with after packing up.

"Right. What's your favourite snack tonight, then?"

He'd learnt from Belial that Mephisto might seem simpleminded about food, but in reality he was terribly hard to please. Junk food was his current obsession: historically, it was a novelty; and humanity's new inventions had always captured the prince's interest. Before junk food, he had been absolutely crazy about peanut butter & jelly sandwiches. Over time, those sandwiches had evolved to include all the other new foodstuffs that caught his fancy, such as Nutella, vegemite, marshmallows, and cheese puffs. The sandwiches were, according to the butler, as terrible as they sounded.

"Pork soba, extra spicy", Mephisto concluded after stroking his beard in careful consideration.

"I could complain about your eating habits, but I gotta say I'm glad you're so cheap."

"Watch your tongue, Shiro: that all depends on how much I eat."

"…now that you mention it: have you been gaining lately?" he said, sweeping a concerned glance over Mephisto's skeletal frame.

That Mephisto would gain a single gram was as likely as him getting honourably married. But the mere _suggestion _that his slender figure was in danger was enough to make him fuss worse than your average housewife.

"One spicy pork soba, and one beef udon", he ordered at the steamy little yatai. Haah, what a nice, warm night – had to savour them now, wouldn't be able to stay up this late once school started.

"Udon? I would have expected something more wholesome of you."

"Buckwheat, normal wheat – no big difference", he shrugged, absentmindedly scraping the yen note over his meagre five-o'clock-shave.

"How exactly did you pass biology…?"

"Excuse me, sirs: how spicy…?" asked the vendor, addressing mostly Shiro since he was the one that looked Japanese.

"As much as you can fit into the bowl without turning the broth into porridge." The chef seemed very sceptical to that. "Don't worry. You can pour lighter fluid over his and he'll still ask for extra chilli. And to answer your question, I don't care so much about the ingredients as the texture." He handed over the yen notes. "I prefer them thick and juicy."

"Oh, all the possible replies to that… really, I can't decide…"

"Traffic jam in the Pervert Speech Centre?" he smirked, and took their bowls off the counter. "How about you use your mouth for something other than talking?" He grinned over his shoulder as he strolled off to one of the two remaining tables. "Neurons knotting up good~?"

It had taken many, _many _Freudian all-nighters before Shiro had realised there was such a thing as "overloading" a demon's silver tongue. It was quite simple, really, once you understood the mechanism behind: serve up too many tempting baits, and the possible replies would pile up and clog the poor demon's brain.

"I'm thinking I should have a dictaphone taped to you at all times, then run the tape through the school's speaker system." Mephisto took his seat gracefully, which looked rather funny when it was no more than a plastic chair in a hideous shade of green. "Would make a most memorable graduation ceremony once you obtain your exorcist certificate."

"M-hm: and I know which demon would be my first target."

…of course, only a minor share of the innuendos that left Shiro's mouth were intentional.

"It's no more difficult to eat udon than to eat soba", he argued against his obstinate friend. "The trick is to take it all in in one go. …pff, yeah, that didn't sound suggestive", he chortled helplessly into his hand, almost dropping the noodles back in the bowl. "I don't know _when _I started screwing up so badly when I speak, but I sure as hell will blame you for it."

"I'm the source of your suppressed desires? My my, are we finally about to hear a confession~?" the demon smirked over his soup with bedroom eyes.

"The source of all my screw-ups: now stop talking and start swallowing."

…that one backfired pretty badly, with all the unpleasant associations Shiro's brain came up with when Mephisto happily slurped up soba noodles. Oh well. It's amazing what the human mind can grow accustomed to.

They kept bantering back and forth, accompanied by the clanks and murmurs of crates being packed and carried into vans. Some vendors had settled down to eat, over at the stands that sold yakisoba and dumplings, but it seemed their raunchy laughter had discouraged any from claiming the other table at the noodle soup yatai. A crinkly old woman came up to them, thin as rice paper in her heavy kimono, bowed politely and-

"Pardon, milady, I hadn't finished."

No, but the old lady seemed firmly convinced he had, and padded back to the yatai – she was the owner's mother? – with Mephisto's cup of chilli seeds. If she wasn't completely deaf, she must be pretty close to. Not that it mattered: he just snapped his fingers and summoned his cup of condiment anew.

"She left before you could finish?" Shiro leered sweetly. "Aww, ain't that a smudge on your reputation as a womanizer~?"

"This is about to become a challenge, Shiro", he informed with a sharply raised eyebrow.

"You feel like challenging the King of Freudian Slips?" He spread his arms and slurped down the last udon string with a cocky grin. "Come at me, Sammy~"

"And the loser has to treat the winner when we go to Mepphy Land", the demon concluded.

And so it began: the battle to eat a whole serving of noodles without succumbing to the other's taunts. It was such a ridiculous thing to do – really, he remembered playing that kind of game with some of the other orphanage kids when he was still little – but Mephisto could bend near all laws to his liking, be it the laws of time and space or the laws of acceptable social behaviour.

They were pretty even, really. Shiro's tolerance threshold had risen remarkably since he'd gotten to know his very _unabashed _friend. Friend. Truly, the human mind can grow accustomed to the strangest things. A demon for a friend? …yeah. His friend. Despite all the dubious things he did, all the secrets he kept and all the games he played, he did consider that… goofy… paradox… his friend.

"So it'll be okay for me to have additional classes with the older exorcist students, even if I'm- Hey, what are you doing?!"

"It's no proper duel if it's not fought on equal terms, no~?" Mephisto smiled graciously, having poured the other half of his super-spicy condiment into Shiro's udon bowl. "Let's see you finish _that_."

Holy. Fucking. _Hell_. He had no idea what Mephisto's taste buds were made of, but he was pretty sure the material had a liquefaction point at 40 000 degrees.

"Problem~?"

"Nah, I hear it's supposed to burn in the beginning", Shiro returned, and felt the saliva _sizzle_ on his tongue.

"That's what you get for preferring them thick and juicy and taking it all in at once."

It was good that Shiro did prefer thick noodles, though, for that remark got him very close to snorting one up his nose.

"Goog whone", he admitted through a mouthful of udon. "Caweful, though: hik the wighk schpok angd ya mighk gek the schausche ing yer faisch."

"Good opportunity to find out if your increased intake of fruit makes any difference to the taste, then", he smirked and licked a droplet off his chopsticks in a _very_…

"I can't believe they let you be in charge of children…"

The battle raged on – god, his mouth was on fire and his tear canals were trying to quell it before it burnt off his jaw. The darn old goat _had _to lose, quick as _hell_, but he was already drinking up the broth, and Shiro's breath wheezed up a throat filled with acid-

"Ha-aaah~ Mephisto…"

That did the trick. Totally. Mephisto spat the broth back into his bowl in a fit of coughing and laughter.

"…I didn't even mean to make it sound _that _dirty." Shit, good thing his face was already flushed from the spice…

"Nhnhnahaaha I- I-kueheheheee Ineedadictaphone! I need a dicta-hahahahaaa…!"

It wasn't long before Shiro, too, snorted with mirth. Mephisto's unrestrained, hooting laughter swept him along, like an avalanche he was all too happy to lose himself in, and it was…

"_I'm… happy_", he thought dreamily to himself. "_Real fairytale-happy._"

Through squinting eyes, he saw Mephisto wiping laughing tears from crumpled-up arcs of merriment. He was happy, too… and somewhere within Shiro, a small, cosy warmth ensured him that the demon was happy with _him_: not with the memory of a man who had died centuries ago.

"Oh dear, oh dear… Given _that _golden nugget I won't even mind losing." Once the fit had passed and the tears were wiped, the forest green eyes seemed brighter than ever in the dusk. "So – how does Saturday sound for Mepphy Land?"

"Can't", he chuckled. "Kasumi will be dropping Shizu off for school then, and she'll stay one day extra to see me. Oi, don't gimme that sulky puppy-eyes-look: I've spent near every night of summer holidays with you."

"And what does miss Honda have to say about that~?"

"No, I… Shut up: you've lost already."

* * *

**A/N: Ah, yes: the full title is "One Night at the Stand". *trololololo~*** Based on real events during one unforgettable supper in Kyoto. The title was made up by Doodle and Mickey, too.


	48. 100: Is it worth it?

**A/N: Refs to ch: 54, 65, 80, 87.**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Sit. Pace. Stand. Wait.

_they'd told him to wait how the fuck could they expect him to just sit like a good boy and wait_

Pace. Sit. Pace. Vomit.

_he'd never get rid of the taste no matter how much he would spit and wash and_

Wait.

_Wait._

Wait for the taste of blood to bend him over the hospital toilet again.

* * *

Dog bite, they'd said when they rushed into the emergency department. _Dog bite_. The nurses had seen the smears of blood he'd tried to wipe from his  
face, he was sure, but none had said anything.

Of course. Anybody could tell those bites didn't come from a human.

Stand. Pace. _Wait._

He couldn't tell in which order things happened. Sharp snapshots had replayed in his head so many times they seemed to blur together in a dream. All he  
knew was he would never forget the taste.

Was he injured? No. His relation to the injured? Friend, he thought he'd replied, but he couldn't quite remember.

_some fucking friend couldn't remember it all went black the taste exploded and the burning_

Was she a student at the Academy? No. Was there somebody to contact? Yes, mother and brother, though he only knew how to get in touch with the latter.

Pace. Sit. Wait. _Quiver_.

Shizuku would tear him to pieces.

_pieces between his teeth soft sweet pieces peeled them away get them away and_

Stand. Rush.

When he vomited again – fourth time? fifth? – his cramping gut mustered no more than strings of saliva and acid. There was nothing left to throw up,  
nothing left inside, nothing… nothing…

Shiro fumbled with the tap, fingers numb and trembling with exhaustion. He washed his mouth, washed his hands, face; poured water down his clammy  
back. Shuddered. How long had it been…? Emergency surgery should be quick, right? It sounded like something that should go quick. When things needed  
to be fixed quickly. Stitched back together. Repairing the damage done.

_why don't you stop lying to yourself_

Shiro hated masks. Hated how people pretended to be something they weren't. Because they _changed_. They became the lie, decaying behind a mask that  
merged with their skin and grew into the bone underneath. Like a tumour. Growing into you. Eating you. Disintegrating you and replacing you.

And you wouldn't even notice. Rapid change, slow change – those, you'll notice. But not change within. You don't notice the subtle lies you echo inside your  
head to smother the voice of truth. Not until the mask is ripped off your face, skin and all.

He hated masks, and still he'd worn them. Without noticing, without thinking – masks painted with the lie that he could have the same life as everyone else.  
That he was still the same as everyone else.

He was a vessel for Satan. How the fuck could he ever hope to be like everyone else?

_and look what that hope had done what he had done no matter how many warnings he refused to_

It went black again. Thick, swathing black brought it all back to him: Kasumi's wide eyes, cataracts of blood washing over her fingers, the taste, the _taste-_

_**"Screwed up pretty bad, did ya? Some boyfriend ya make fufufu~ But, it's not like it's gonna matter in the long run, is it? You'll find  
someone new. You always do. 'cause they never really **matter**, do they~?"**_

Shut up. Shut up shut up just go away and _shut up…!_

_**"Lose one girl; find a new one. Lose some friends; find new ones. As soon as things stop being fun and games ya turn tail and run; 'cause  
that's what they're for, your precious little friends. They're your entertainment."**_

Shut up!

_**"They're your**_ _distractions**."**_

"_You're lying_", he hissed, scrambling within himself to find support for his claim.

_**"They're there to make ya forget how lonely ya feel."**_

"_I love her!_"

_**"Do ya~?" **_it snickered gleefully. _**"Or do ya love how she makes ya feel? Warm, happy, wanted – quite different from the orphanage where ya  
were raised, heeh~? **That's_ _**what ya love, little hypocrite. And ya could get that from **anybody**."**_

He woke, gasping for breath in a corridor he couldn't place. Still in the hospital; good. Nobody around; even better. Be the master of your emotion, be the  
master of your darkness – god, it was like swimming upstream in a mountain torrent, swept up and carried away; guilt, panic, shame, despair…

He fumbled his way along the concrete wall, into the blinding, sterile light of a larger corridor hoping to weaken the demon's hold somewhat. It worked, but it  
was a quick fix. He managed to shut it out, while at the same time shutting himself in with an inferno of emotion he couldn't bring under control. Idiot. As  
dumb as Shizuku joked he was and then some. A stupid fucking idiot that-

"_What am I whining about?_" Cold. So cold it froze the angst to crisp, sharp-edged icicles in his chest. "_I'm not the one lying in there with my face torn to shreds._"

Selfish. Just like his dear old father; a selfish coward that put his own goddamn comfort before the welfare of people he claimed he loved. Keep a crack in the  
shielding, 'cause that was so bloody much more comfortable – never mind it risked demons slipping in, he just wanted to feel that sweet drug of emotion fill  
him. Him. Him, him, him – always _him_, Fujimoto Shiro; the orphan that didn't want to be close and didn't want to be alone, the daredevil that took stupid  
fuck-ass risks for his precious kicks…!

"_It should've been me._" _He _took the risks, _he _should pay the price when they backfired! "_It should've been me, dammit!_"

Wait. Walk.

Walk anywhere, walk nowhere. Just walk and hope that he couldn't keep up. That he'd fall behind and let his better self move on.

Shiro didn't meet the eyes of the nurses he passed in the white corridors, but he felt them. As if the fallen mask had left his face a raw, skinless horror that  
everyone saw but pretended not to see. Selfish, unspeakable, tainted: a vessel befitting Satan.

He sought the shadows of the echoing hallways, hurried his feet through oceans of lamplight as if it could reveal his thoughts aloud. It all looked the same,  
everywhere. Endless clones spawned by white corridors that ran the same crooked spirals as his thoughts. He couldn't find the doors to the surgery room,  
couldn't find the doors he'd arrived through, couldn't find-

"_I don't even know what I'm trying to find. I don't know what I'm doing._"

Walking. Manically walking, as if he were a wind-up toy whose heart would stop if he did. The empty waiting room welcomed him with nondescript paintings  
and worn couches with covers that gained an unpleasant hue of pink in the stuffy light.

Shiro couldn't sit down anyway. Move, move, had to move. Restlessness churned in his gut, chased his gaze this-way-and-that across the room – bookshelf  
with old magazines, cup of dried-up ballpoint pens for those with time and peace of mind to solve crosswords, children's corner, long-leafed pot plants in the  
windows, brochures on vaccination info

_thoughts racing god they didn't stop rushed around madly like caged birds looking for a way out when there wasn't_

He tried to stop something, just _something_ – his feet, his thoughts, his neurotic eyes – but it all kept moving, kept

_so many things he wouldn't have done if he'd only stopped to think if he'd only listened tonight would never have happened if_

***dun***

Silence.

Bliss… silence… drowning his thoughts in the wrenching pain of a dislocated knuckle.

Shiro leaned against the wall he'd punched, shrouded in the private darkness behind his closed eyelids. Breath hissed in and out between clenched teeth.  
Right hand. Index finger. Of course. His idiot brain had never thought before it acted, why would it start now?

Doctor training kicked in, and Shiro gratefully latched onto the practical protocol that rolled like cinema through his mind. Clear, methodical thoughts.  
Drilled-in procedure that he could find respite in. First, check where the phalanx bone was- nngh, okay, okay; it had dislocated entirely and stuck on the  
side of the metacarpal bone. So, first to disconnect it…

Shiro drew a breath, placed his left hand fingers around the knuckle, and squeezed hard.

"_Bloody fucking_ shit…!" Electric current shooting through his bones, cracking flesh and muscle…! He gasped at the sickening feeling of things moving where  
things should not move. "_Okay… okay…_" Feel the joint again, try to find the – nghah! – find the end of the phalanx. It wasn't in position yet, fuck it all. One  
more go, one more… "_Ngh-haaaanrrrh!_" Capillaries caught fire and painted forks of thunder over his closed eyelids. Was it-? Yes, good.

Shiro opened his eyes a sliver and inspected his right hand. The finger was where it should be, but half a centimetre longer than it should be. Gingerly, he  
felt the row of knuckles, then grimaced as he forced his fingers down into a ninety-degree angle with the back of his hand.

"_One…_" He placed the hand against the wall in the same position. "_Two…_" Placed his left hand onto the back of the right one… "_Three._" Drew a breath; and  
pushed.

…when the pain subsided, he tried bending and straightening his fingers. The index finger felt sore and unsteady, but it was in place. Nothing seemed fractured,  
as far as he could tell. The tendons would be sore: that was about it. Splint it and it would be back to normal in a couple of weeks.

Back to normal…

With its task completed, the calm, practical reasoning fell apart once more. Slowly. _Inevitably. _Bridges burning with flame he couldn't extinguish.

Back to normal. Yet another lie.

Shiro waded through a slow-motion haze of disconnected impressions; vacuum-wrapped emotions; thoughts half decayed; he could've walked off the edge  
of the world, and he wouldn't even have noticed. Vacant eyes stared blindly through reality, through the mirage lies he'd anchored his hopes to, into the  
hollow truth in his heart; into his own eyes…

The low hum of the vending machine lulled him back to consciousness, back through the eyes of the reflection that stared at him inside the glass.

_eyes like a demon_

He hadn't understood it before, what Midori had meant when she said that. But there they were. Pupils narrowed down to arrow tips; lethal, glaring black  
holes in brown irises that had always shifted towards red… but not this much. Not this bright. These were predator eyes. Demon eyes.

_There is no grey zone_, the reflection whispered through the buzzing of the cooling system. _There is black and there is white, and no room for you to doubt  
which side you're on anymore.  
_  
No grey zones of doubt. No haven for lies to feed his precious delusions.

And slowly… Fujimoto Shiro, the infamous daredevil of True Cross Academy… sagged against the smooth, cold glass… and slid down on the floor…


	49. 101: Only human

**A/N: So many lovely reviews – thank you everyone! But really, these guest reviews that I can't reply to… x')**

**Dear Guest  
**Oh, you flatter me… I'm a monster, I admit it: whistle innocently at night and I'll come creeping in through your bedroom window, bringing steamy hot dreams of One Night Stands that you will wake from before finishing. Like a really, really douchy succubus. ;9 Since I can't write a reply directly to you, I'm posting it over in BtEatB. It's not exactly an apology, though. =u='

**Dear Dare mo  
**Ah, you weren't the only one to find that chapter difficult. I wrote it to reflect Shiro's state of incoherent anxiety, so it _is _hard to piece together, especially if English isn't your first language. I answer all questions, long and short. When I get them from anonymous reviewers, I put the reply in my next chapter, like this. I find your English perfectly comprehensible, but if you feel more comfortable writing in Spanish you can do that. I don't know much Spanish, I'm afraid, but I think I know enough Latin and Italian to pick my way through a Spanish text if it isn't too advanced (and if all else fails, there's dictionaries). I will reply in English, though. ^_^'

**Refs to: ch 27.**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Never listen to a demon's deceptive words. He knew that. Still, as the crescent moon sailed slowly over the night sky, they kept echoing in his ears.

He stood vigil at her hospital bed that night, listening to the monotonous hum of the fan and the incessant beeping of machines in the dark room. Shizuku had fallen asleep in a chair, adding his snoring to the disharmonic lullaby. A nurse had passed by on her night-round, an hour ago or so, and put a blanket over him. She had asked if Shiro wanted one, too. He didn't.

Love makes people retarded. Makes them take stupid risks. Tristan and Isolde, Lancelot and Guinevere, Romeo and Juliet – classical literature was full of them, and they all ended badly.

Shiro had stared so long at the bandaged face that he'd nearly forgotten it was her. It had ceased to be a person and become a still picture; a surreal photography encapsulated in the clinically dreamless sleep of drugs and anaesthesia. A few times, he'd actually thought it was someone else. A few times, he'd stopped breathing, thinking she had died.

A few times, he had wondered how close she had been to dying.

When Shizuku had arrived at the hospital, Shiro had taken his chalk-white classmate aside to explain. He hadn't resisted when Shizuku beat him up. It didn't make him feel better… but Shizuku needed to let off steam. That, at least, Shiro could do for him.

He had told him how they had been walking back to her hostel together in the evening. How she had hopped up on the steps to somebody's porch and waved him closer. How she had pulled him tight and kissed him. How everything went black after that.

He didn't tell him that he usually let his guard down around Kasumi. It had been at the edge of his teeth, tipping like a vase on a bumped table, but it never came out. Couldn't come out. Clung to his tongue with piercing barbs, promising to shatter the ground beneath his feet if he ever told the whole truth.

There were bandages over her chin, a small gap for her breath to wheeze out, bandage over her nose, cheeks – swirls of ruffled, sun-bleached hair sticking out where the white gauze crawled around her head. If not for the tattoos reaching out from the short sleeves of the green hospital robe, it could have been anybody.

If not for the tattoos, she could have been dead. Shiro himself couldn't remember, but his skin remembered the burning force of the wards. That's what had called his consciousness back. Too fucking late.

To say he was sorry didn't quite cover what he felt. There was no excuse for what he had done, nothing he could say that would make her stitches disappear. But tomorrow would come, and when Kasumi woke up he would have to tell her _something_. No idea what, but he had all night to figure it out; and all night, useless syllables void of meaning piled up in his gut. Funny things, words. The ones you really need never exist.

* * *

A thousand imagined scenarios later, Kasumi woke. It started as a feeble fluttering of eyelids, a strained swallowing through a dry throat… and then her eyes opened. And Shiro had no words.

"Hey there", he whispered softly, noticing how his fingers – except the right index one, that was splinted – tightened around the clipboard he held. "Don't talk. Doctor's orders", he smiled wanly. "You lip needs to heal together first. Meanwhile, he said you could use this to communicate."

Gingerly, as if it were a shrine offering, he placed the clipboard and the ballpoint pen strung from it in her lap. Was that all he had? After all that time, empty words echoed from a doctor's mouth was all he had to say to her?

"…I'm so sorry, Kasumi." His voice started breaking on the last syllable of her name. He swallowed, lowered his gaze to the clipboard and blinked a couple of times. "I'm… I should leave you and Shizuku alone for a while. Somebody needs to inform the doc- doctor that you're awake, anyway."

An inarticulate noise made him turn around when he was about to go wake Shizuku. Kasumi's fingers worked pathetically to pick up the pencil, her eyebrows knitted together in frustrated concentration.

…Shiro picked the pencil up for her, closed her fingers around it, but it immediately fell out of her limp grasp.

"I think it's better if you rest for now", he murmured, stroking the calloused hand gently with his thumb. "Maybe Shizuku is better than me at guessing what you want." Better than him in every way…

When he was about to leave, the urgent noise came from Kasumi's closed lips again, and powerless fingers tried to hold his hand in place. She looked sharply at him, pointing the question with her worried eyes, and managed a limp, graceless motion with her lower arm.

_What happened to ya' face?_

Shiro didn't even think, only replied:

"He needed it, and I deserved it." She blurred in his vision, shit, he shouldn't- "I'll go wake him now."

Turning away, he blinked the tears back in line. Focus, dammit. He was still a mess, and demons still hoped for another chance. Steadying breaths accompanied his footfalls the short distance to the hospital chair, where Shizuku was sleeping in a position only possible if you've slept on the ground since you were little.

"Hey. Shizu-sa… Shizuku-san." He shook the pilgrim's shoulder gently. "She's awake."

Like magic words in a spell. Shizuku woke instantly, and wasted no time rushing over to his sister. Shiro took the opportunity to leave through the heavy door. Once outside, he clenched his teeth and grimaced, fighting back tears that tightened around the sobs in his throat.

_What happened to ya' face?_

"_Why do you worry about _me _at a time like this, dammit…_"

* * *

The hospital couldn't permit him to sleep in one of their beds, in case they suddenly found themselves in emergency need of one. Policy, or something like that. Shiro didn't give two shits about policy, and negotiations to convince him to go sleep in his dorm, or in a nearby hotel, had broken down rather quickly. He was fine with sleeping on the waiting room couch, and the personnel were fine with leaving him there. One nurse had asked if she should fetch an ice pack for his swollen lip, but he had declined.

Kasumi hadn't changed one bit. As soon as the anaesthesia released its grip on her muscles, her pencil scribbled through pages at lightning speed. About half of it were words: the rest were doodles of facial expressions she couldn't make through the bandages.

[Doctor says I get rid of the wrapping tomorrow already. =D I'm the record holder, you know? 103 stitches!]

…it was absurd. How she could be in high spirits like that. Both Shiro and Shizuku had asked if the morphine she had been given during surgery had some boosting effect on mood, and had received the reply that yes, they might have; but miss Honda seemed to be running mostly on her own steam. A psychologist had been sent to evaluate her status, and had concluded that Honda Kasumi was, despite the gravity of the accident, in perfect mental condition.

"Kasu, I know ya've been asked this a thousand times already: but are ye really okay in the head…?" Shizuku inquired, sitting with his arms folded on the backrest of a chair he'd turned around.

[Was I ever okay in the head, otouto? =P I think we've seen a bit in life already and gone blunt. Or mentally calloused. Or whatever fancy name shrinks like to use for it.]

"Ye're not just keepin' up pretence ta keep me from worryin', are ya? Or 'im." Shizuku nodded his head at Shiro. "Not that it's doin' much good with 'im anyway…"

Shiro was too deep inside his cloud of gloom to even respond to the jibe. Looking at the siblings was like looking through a window to another dimension. Kasumi had basically dismissed the whole incident with a shrug, and as soon as it was clear that she would be okay Shizuku had gone from rabid dog to a mother hen that attended to his sister's every need. They really could just… leave it behind? Move on, not looking back?

It was different for them, of course. They didn't know of the imprint, or the reason Shiro was constantly targeted. They had no idea just how badly this could have ended. For them, this ordeal belonged in the past. They could move on in bliss ignorance, mentally calloused but strengthened by each other's company.

…and once again, Shiro had to smother the wish that he could be the same as everyone else.

* * *

Next morning, Shiro woke to the gurgling screech of a huge, pink bat perched atop the couch backrest. It could have simply dropped the letter on him and left, but the darn creature still held enough grudge against him to wake him before taking off.

…trust the old goat to buy his stationery at the toy store. Rainbows and glitter, what the hell…

_Dear Fujimoto Shiro-kun_

_I have been informed of the nature of your absence…_

Shiro skimmed the letter sleepily: deep sympathies, relieved of janitor duty because of injury to hand, and…

"'_Would you join me for a sojourn to Mepphy Land on Friday, before school starts?'_" he read, eyelids hanging in a state of half-mast dullness that could just as well have sat on Mephisto's face. The bruise under his left eye had blossomed fully into purple now. "_Incredible. As bloody carefree as Kasumi._"

Shiro dropped his head back down on the couch with a pained groan, and left letter and envelope on the table. He had been dreaming. Not about the accident itself, but about… hunting. He hadn't seen _what _he hunted, and it hadn't mattered; it was the hunt itself, the thrill coursing through his straining muscles as he closed in…

Never mind. Just never mind. It wasn't a dream he cared to remember.

They both took so lightly on this. If he could do the same, maybe… Just let it pass, look at it from the bright side; it could have been worse. Sure it could. Kasumi was alive, she was bouncy as ever, she wasn't mad at him – really, things could have been _a lot _worse than that. He should count himself lucky to get away with so little damage after such an irresponsible screw-up. There were things still standing in the ruins. There were things still there to build on.

Shiro had himself pretty convinced of that - until Kasumi's bandages were taken off.

* * *

Failing fans left the hospital corridor to be slowly heated by the morning sun through the window, like a greenhouse smelling of disinfected plastic and ingrained routine. Shiro stood outside the examination room, staring blindly at the beige carpeting with shredded delusions etched into his cornea. All he could think of was a peach, and somebody biting into it; but instead of eating it, the flesh was left dangling, scraped halfway off by teeth. A peach, soft and sweet and-

"_Dear god…_"

He covered his eyes with a trembling hand, held upright by the wall against his shoulders. As if he could blot out the picture of Kasumi's bold pixie face. A patchwork of split flesh and black stitches.

He breathed, alone in the throbbing darkness, and listened to the air wheezing through the hole in his chest. Shit, shit, shit… A door opening smoothly, the sound of more laboured breathing, and a gait he recognised as Shizuku's.

Shiro kept hiding behind his hand as he spoke. His voice wouldn't carry for more than a whisper:

"I don't understand how she can smile."

"It's 'er gift." Shizuku didn't sound like himself. His voice was thick and hoarse, clogged with emotion he tried to keep in check. "She'll fuss over the smallest details in 'er carvings an' such, but in life nothing will bother her s' long as she's got feet ta walk on an' hands ta work with. I dunno how she does it." He bit the sob off as soon as he heard it creep into his voice. "But she does. An' I always thought she was amazing that way. Like she could truly… truly appreciate life, no matter how bad things got. Like she could see things in it that I couldn't. Forgive things… that I couldn't." The next sob couldn't be held back. "Look, man, I'm…" his voice wobbled unsteadily, "I'm sorry I hit ya. I was-"

"Don't be", Shiro murmured, letting his hand drop and fixing his eyes on a poster with hygiene prescriptions, to let his friend have some privacy with his tears. "It was the right thing to do."

"But I shouldn't. I still shouldn't. I know I got a temper", he sniffed, wiping fiercely at his eyes. "But I shouldn't let that get ahead 'o my thinking. I _know _ya didn't mean any o' this. I know that." He wiped his hand on the threadbare shirt he wore, eyes cast on the ground. "But my feelings don't."

"Yeah…" he murmured feebly to himself. "Feelings aren't good at thinking, are they?"

* * *

The sun shone outside the hospital, completely unaware that it wasn't appropriate for Shiro's mood. He let the smoke waft out of mouth and nostrils at its own leisure, empty eyes tracing its dance as it disappeared in thin air. The cigarette rested awkwardly against his splinted forefinger.

The bites had torn two of the three buccal nerves on the right side of Kasumi's face, and the greater part of the mandibular nerve on the left. She couldn't feel her cheek, or her lower lip. Doctors said the nerves might grow back, or they might not: it would take at least two years before they could make any prognosis. The only thing they could say for certain was that her flesh seemed to heal together without complications, but her chances of getting full feeling back were low.

And still, she had smiled at the news.

_A smile is a slow dagger, slipping in between your ribs…_

But her muscles didn't feel what they were doing.

_…and twisting_

He'd felt the stitches tear in his heart, all one hundred and three of them, when that impish signature smile of hers had distorted the patched ragdoll features. That's when he had decided to go out for a smoke.

There were three cigarette butts in the metal box now. The first one had been to calm his rampant guilt. The second had been for capturing the seed of an idea that had sprung from chaos, once guilt had been subdued into a dull, aching knot in his chest. The third had been nurture, as the seed had begun sprouting… suggestions. They had been mere fancies at first – daydreams and madman's hopes – but the closer the red glow crept to the filter…

The fourth cigarette, the one rolling thoughtfully back and forth between his fingers, was the scales measuring the weight of his decision.

There was a way to make amends. Make things right, clear up the mess he was responsible for. There was always a way. If you were willing to pay the price.

* * *

Maybe it showed on his face; maybe the rumour of female intuition held some grain of truth. Whichever it was, Kasumi's serious eyes nailed him in place as soon as he re-entered the hospital foyer.

"Hullo there, Fuji. I was worried ye'd left." There was worry in her voice yes: not that he had left, but for where he had gone. "There's somethin' we need ta talk about."

It's a strange experience, to go for a walk in a hospital. You can't help but listen to your footsteps, as they thrum a thousand stories out of the silent walls; the joy of expecting mothers, the fearful pain of children injured in wild games, the slowing heartbeat of an elderly husk waiting to stop… a library of human life, in its entire garish rainbow.

"Ye know how I told ya I can read every thought in ye' head?" Kasumi began. She kept the usual humour in her voice, even though it greyed like withered petals around the edges. "Right now ye're thinking o' doing something really stupid 'cause ye' conscience tells ya to. _Don't_, Fuji." He looked away, as if she really could read his mind if he met her eyes. "Look at me. This isn't yer fault, okay?" she said, touching her fingertips to skin that couldn't feel them.

"It is", he replied without emotion.

"No it ain't. Ya didn't mean ta do this, right?"

"No, but I-"

"No 'buts'." She cocked an eyebrow at him, daring him to go against her. "It was an accident, an' nobody could help it. An' I'm no worse fer wear. Sure, I may be a little uglier than I was before, but I'm not gonna have any problems eatin' or speakin'. I'm gonna be alright, Fuji", she said with emphasis. "An' ye're not gonna sign some blood contract ta fix something that's alright."

Maybe it showed on his face, maybe she knew him well – maybe she was telepathic. Regardless, things were as far from bloody alright as they could have been. And it was his fault.

"You won't be alright for years – might never have full feeling back. Look, I-"

"That doesn't matter. Trust me, it doesn't matter." One of her eyebrows rose disdainfully at the next question: "Or ya don't want an ugly girlfriend…?"

"No! No, that really isn't it." He halted, fumbled for words, wet his lips; forced himself to meet her eyes. "I did this", he murmured to her, "and I won't ever be able to look at you without remembering that. This is all my fault, and I should… I should make it right."

She placed a finger over his lips, shaking her head gently: but all he could think of was the suture smile that clawed at his heart.

"It's noble of ya, ta think like that, but it's not worth it."

"It is worth it. You don't understa-"

"Look, Shiro, I understand just fine", she cut him off, voice sharpened with irritation. "Ye blame ye'self. That's natural: I blamed me'self when my little sister died." Remembrance softened her eyes, and her voice along with them: "But ye gotta accept that accidents happen, an' there's nothing one can do about it."

"I _can_ d-"

"Sure: ye _can_. There's many things people _can _do, but that doesn't mean they _should _do 'em. It's not worth it." Without warning, she grabbed his glasses strings and gently tugged him down, the way you'd pull someone by the collar. "Look, I know Sir Pheles is yer buddy… But when it comes ta business a demon's a demon, an' that's never gonna change. Ye're not making any deal with him, ya hear me?"

How could he promise her something like that? How could he agree to promise that, when he felt every stitch in her mangled face tear at his conscience? He tried to block it out, of course he did; tried to let the feeling slide, wash over and be gone, like water off a duck's feather. Good luck with that.

Time stretched, and only silence left his lips.

"I thought ya wanted ta be an exorcist", she said sharply, almost stabbing the words at him. Despite her scant size, Kasumi felt much bigger than he was. "This is reality fer an exorcist. People get hurt. People die. Blame themselves. Wish they could'a done somethin' about it." Regret. Sticky as pine resin in the dark depths of her eyes; regret for all the wishes that had gone unfulfilled. "It's not just demons ye fight out there: it's yer own human nature. It's in our nature ta love, ta mourn – ta wish fer miracles when we're desperate." A shaky breath, a tense pause… and as she let go of his strings, her voice softened: "Demons know that. That's why it's in desperate situations that an exorcist has ta show 'is true strength. If 'e fails ta do that, he'll be defeated: not through magic, not through claws, but through 'is own heart."

…and finally, they came. Water off a duck's feather. A broken dam with emotion pouring freely down his cheeks, and no chance in the world of stopping it.

"I'm sorry." He buried his face in her hair, pulled her close and felt her soft warmth seep in and hold him together. "I'm sorry, I'm so s-sorry…!" he repeated through incoherent sobs. "I shouldn't have gone o-out with you at night, I sh-shouldn't have-" Shouldn't be giving in to emotion like this, even if it was daytime. They were waiting, they were _always _waiting, but…

…it might be the last time he cried.

"It's alright, Fuji." No, it wasn't. It wasn't bloody alright: he was responsible for all this, and here he stood like an overgrown cry-baby and got comforted by the very woman he'd almost- "It's alright ta cry."

"It's not", he sobbed, choking on shame and pressing her close as if she'd dissolve in smoke if he let go – god, he was pathetic… "I should-"

"Ye should what?" she murmured into his shoulder, rubbing warm circles onto his back. "Sign a contract fer each friend that gets hurt? Fight demons by day an' bargain with 'em at night, until ye got nothin' left ta sell?" She turned her head in his arms and planted a soft kiss on his jaw. "Ye've got the heart of a lion, Fuji, but even lions can't protect everyone."

He could have, if he had cared to watch his emotions properly. But he had been weak. Selfish. But most of all, he'd been human. It's in human nature to love, to mourn, to feel: it's in human nature to _want _to feel. Yet, feelings aren't good at thinking, and so here he was; harming people he loved because of his human nature. As much as he wanted to – as much as his _feelings _wanted to –, he could not allow himself to repeat that mistake.

"I won't make a deal with him, or any other demon", he whispered thickly. "I promise."

* * *

**A/N: Well, my dentist education has begun now, which is why all of a sudden there's stuff like neural damage in the face showing up. ***swotting anatomy* This also means I might not update as fast as I have done up until now. One chapter at a time, maybe two? I won't stop writing, but I will be slower. x')


	50. 102: Poison

**A/N: Reply to Dare mo can be found at the bottom. =)**

**Aaaand I don't own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

They look human, but they're not. They act human, but they're not.

The difference…?

They can do anything. Anything at all.

They're not human.

They're monsters.

* * *

Many years ago, in elementary school, his class had gone on a trip to Kyoto. Cultural visit. Looking at historical buildings and such. On the schedule had been  
a visit to Gion, the old geisha district, where they had watched a tea ceremony. The old geisha had folded the fukusa cloth with the expertise of endless practice,  
fit edge to edge with minute precision under softly billowing hands. She had wiped the rim of the cup the exact number of degrees counter-clockwise, then  
wiped the scoop: first the flat side, thin sides, flat side… and lingering a perfected unit of time at the head of it, before removing the cloth and setting the scoop  
down on the tea caddy. Shiro remembered it as one of the most boring afternoons in his life.

And still, as he mixed herbal tinctures under Matsuri-sensei's supervision, the tea ceremony was what came to mind. His hands moved, smoothly, flawlessly;  
not an instant wasted on still hesitation or excess motion. There was neither hurry, nor delay; only… perfection, just like the old geisha in Kyoto had performed  
it. Perfection, of the kind only achieved when humanity is removed.

Shiro hadn't wanted to detach fully from his emotions before. He had clung to the hope that he could remain the same, but when hope proved a lie it was  
almost a blessing to let go. Detach. Bury it all in numbness. Hope, emotion, regret: vibrant leaves falling from the tree of life, leaving the black skeleton  
standing naked against winter white. The bones of the world picked bare by the vultures of functionality. Edges smudged by emotional caress cut sharp by  
the raw aesthetic of purpose. A mathematical equation. A straight line hunt for the x to solve the problem at hand.

"Excellent work, Fujimoto-kun", Matsuri-sensei praised as he corked the three bottles of pale orange liquid. "Now, as you are all aware, the target is an elderly  
woman living alone just a few blocks from our current position. She should be out hunting by now. Fujimoto-kun and I will administer the injection, and your  
task is to stand guard and search the house for potentially unforeseen elements. Once we have finished our work, we take cover in a neighbouring garden  
and wait for the demon to return: approximately three minutes after it does, we will re-enter the house and collect the remains." She scanned their faces in  
the flashlight, one by one. "Is everyone clear on our procedure?"

"Yes", three voices confirmed in unison.

Irony. The taste of surly humour attempting in vain to curl his lips. Esquires normally didn't get to participate in missions that involved exorcism of humanoid  
demons: psychological aspects postponed it to more experienced years. That he was allowed to come meant that they either thought he could handle it, or  
that they knew he could. Bearing in mind that the "they" in charge of delegating missions was Mephisto, it could be either.

* * *

There were two other senior exorcists on the team, Matsuri-sensei aside: one Knight and one Tamer. Black robes merged seamlessly with the night as they  
moved along the quiet streets of one of True Cross Town's suburbs, known to offer a wide range of recreational activities. It was a high-income district, where  
spacious villas slept peacefully in lush green nests on each side of the sloping road – although the same couldn't be said of their tenants.

Police had failed to find anybody – or anything – responsible for the night-time attacks that had struck throughout the area. There were no fingerprints, no  
hairs, no nothing; only half-eaten bodies left in the streets, and people speaking of shrieks so terrifying they couldn't even find the strength to crawl out of  
bed and call for help.

What puzzled the police was obvious to an exorcist: nukekubi. A rot-type demon that suspended its own decay by feeding on live humans.

Nukekubi were special, in the sense that they were among few demons that were _weaker _at night: because at night their heads detached from their bodies  
to hunt, while the body was left behind in a lifeless and highly vulnerable state. The hassle was rather that of locating them. Nukekubi hid in plain sight,  
snugly integrated among the humans they fed on. The two telltale signs to identify one was to look for bad breath, combined with a line of red marks  
surrounding the neck where the head detached.

Another ironic smile passed by Shiro's muscles: on the right side of the law, and still picking locks in the dead of night. Although it wasn't he doing it this time.

The door to the villa opened with a creak that made him cringe, but it didn't matter: no head, no ears. The Knight and the Tamer went first, at the ready  
should unexpected events occur. It was indeed the home of a dead person: dust hung thick in the stuffy air and made them all spontaneously cover their  
mouths, even though nukekubi didn't emit any noxious vapours. Picture frames, porcelain figures, reading glasses, hand lotion, hair combs - a steady stream  
of impressions fed his brain, to be sorted and sifted for useful information.

In one room, the lonesome ray of light ghosted over photographs of grandchildren and what seemed to be grandchildren's children. In another, it found the  
kamidana; the altar to honour Shinto gods. Its remains lay scattered over the tatami mats, broken porcelain and moulding straw that didn't suit the tastes  
of the new inhabitant.

They found her in the fourth room, behind shoji doors painted with pines and cranes. Flashlight fell quivering on the old lady, who lay sleeping on her futon  
just like a human would. Without head. Just a gaping hole into the red vaults of the ribcage; lungs framed by wetly glistening collarbones, and the top of  
the spine spilling noodle-like nerve ends and thick-walled blood vessels. No wonder they didn't give this kind of mission to newbies.

They split from there; he and Matsuri-sensei entering the room while the other exorcists went to complete the search. Shiro rolled down the duvet without a  
word. Threadbare skin covered her arms, painted with the pale spots of old age and the Braille creases of time. So thin, looking like it would tear if he touched  
it too roughly. She still… wore her wedding ring…

Assembling needle and syringe went swift, despite the splinted finger. His fingers knew, with minds of their own. With measured ease they fit components  
together, plucked a vial from his belt, drew liquid out through the cork. Flawless. Purposeful. Tea ceremony.

Part of him was genuinely interested in how he could preserve such calm when faced with a mutilated, perfectly human body. Another part of him saw no  
body at all, but an objective: an equation with an x about to be injected into it. A part of him that had no problem with killing humanoid creatures.

One more reason exorcism of such demons was reserved for more experienced exorcists: discretion. Nukekubi looked human. _Other _humans would panic if  
they saw some black-robed figure shoot a man dead in the street, or slice a woman in half with a sword. It was in everybody's interest to limit the collateral  
damage, which was mostly done through lethal injection. The head couldn't survive daytime without its body, and once it re-attached and set the heart  
pumping again, toxins would spread and kill the demon within three minutes. To the untrained public eye, it would look like nothing more than a case of  
ruptured aneurism.

Shiro placed the tip of the needle to a vein in the right arm of the corpse and let it sink the few necessary millimetres into the skin before emptying it.

"Matsuri-san", hissed the Tamer from the door to the hall. "Come. We have a problem."

They had seven problems, lying in headless sleep in the basement under the house. One more peculiarity of the nukekubi: sometimes they disguised themselves  
as human families.

"That changes things", Matsuri-sensei agreed, her eyebrows furrowing as she tapped her lower lip in thought. "We should take them all out, but we can't explain  
eight ruptured aneurisms…"

"We can burn the house", Shiro suggested coolly. "Inject the bodies, open the gas vault on the stove, torch the place once the nukekubi come back. It would  
still look like an accident."

"A rough plan, but an efficient one. Very well: turn on the stove, Fujimoto-kun. You've done well on a mission of this degree. We will inject the poison and  
meet you outside."

Shiro handed her the remaining vials – _measured, purposeful _– and turned back up the narrow wooden stairs. Turn right into the small kitchen, pass the dirty  
plates and rotting leftovers in the sink, turn the valve. Old woman, old stove: the kind that didn't have an automatic shutoff valve that triggered if the gas  
was on without flame. Back into the hallw-

_krk_

_krk-k-k-krrk_

There's nothing quite like the sound of bone grinding against bone to set one's nerves on edge. The light of his torch met with a pudgy body in peach-coloured  
night robe, staggering and twitching over the kitchen floor. Feet angled oddly, spine not in place. There was no control in the movements: no _mind. _The head  
was still screwing itself stuck on her shoulders, feathery white hair smearing fine lines of blood over round glasses that looked just like his. The old woman  
blinked at him, smiled at him; opened her mouth to-

_ The screech of a nukekubi can cause auditory canal haemorrhage and loss of consciousness at close distance.  
_  
Gun.  
_  
The gas is on._

Shiro flipped the flashlight around in his hand and swung the end with crushing precision against the demon's temple. The head swivelled, creaking on its  
spine and stretching the skin that was stitching itself together along the red marks.

"They're coming back!" he barked, dodging the blind sweep of claws.

It was harder to ignore the part of him saying this was an old lady, now that she moved. Hard, but not impossible. Shiro juggled the flashlight to his impeded  
right hand, grasped a handful of her hair in his left, and forced throat and knee together with the muffled crunch of cartilage deforming. No larynx, no voice,  
no scream.  
_  
Three minutes._

Three minutes is a long time to hold against a demon, unarmed.  
_  
Kitchen knife.  
_  
Shiro lunged for the holder on the counter, only to send it crashing down on the floor when the old lady yanked his other arm with demonic strength.  
Momentum dragged them both down on the floor, the lone ray of light rolling over the carpeting as they wrestled for control. He fumbled blindly for a knife,  
found a handle: stabbed off the tendons that let her fingers clench around his arm. The demon hissed, baring row upon row of barbed-wire teeth behind  
parched lips.  
_  
Internal damage takes a demon around 40% longer time to heal than superficial injury._

She would screech soon, and he would be dead.

A long, green-furred body wormed itself around the demon, and when the creature's teeth sank into the hand around Shiro's throat he glimpsed boar's tusks  
and yellow eyes. No familiar he had heard of, but the distraction was appreciated.

He tore himself free, grabbed the nukekubi's hair, and used as much force as he dared to slam her face into the floor; raised the knife, lodged the blade deep  
between the second and third vertebrae in her neck.

"Fujimoto-kun, what are-?"

"Preventing it from screaming", he cut off.

Nerves severed, the body's movements became weak and uncoordinated in the familiar's serpent grip. Shiro wasted no time grabbing a sashimi knife from  
the floor, tugging the head up, and slashing the throat off above the larynx. Sawing motions, hot blood making the handle slippery, gurgling noises and  
thrashing growing weaker: digging his fingers into the wet heat, he grabbed hold of the jaw and wrenched the head off her spine.

The body went limp. No sound was heard, save the voiceless wheezing of breath from the head. Shiro grabbed its hair anew, jerked his fingers out of the flesh  
that had healed around them. It still lived. Fascinating.

"_How come it doesn't regenerate the neck, then?_" he wondered, turning the head in his hands to inspect the severed point. The muscles worked feebly, as on  
a fish lying on ice in the food market, but no visible regeneration. His eyes wandered to the body in the green coils, where the rest of the neck was- "_It doesn't  
regenerate a body part that is still attached, either to the body or to the head._" Interesting.

"The bodies have received the injections", Matsuri-sensei reported, joining the Tamer and the Knight in the hallway. "How are you, Fujimoto-kun?" Urgency  
broke the professional tone. "Are you injured?"

"No." He felt his body rise, while feelings swam hysterically under the surface of his detachment. "I think I'm alright." The head tugged fervently in his hand.  
"What do we do with this?"

Disgust. Horror. There were many things to be read on their pale faces; the Knight apparently couldn't stomach to even look at the head.

"We might have to keep it like that", the Tamer mused gravely. "It will only cause trouble if we let it go. We're ready to burn the house down, aren't we?"

The head wheezed furiously and tried to bite him several times. Shiro stood by the garden pond, an unlit cigarette lolling between his lips, while the other  
exorcists returned the body to its futon and cleaned off the kitchen as best they could.

"Murderer!" it hissed, unable to produce more than whisper without vocal cords. "Exorsssisst ssscum!" Threats and saliva and curses flew from its lips: but  
when Matsuri-sensei gave them signal to draw back to the park across the road, the hissing became pleas and promises. "We will leave, boy: I swear it. We  
leave this city, leave Japan. We will never trouble you."

Shiro didn't reply.

* * *

The sky had begun to blush a pale grey when the first head returned. The old woman's head whispered frantically for them to turn back, turn back, but her  
voice didn't reach them. Within a minute or two all seven had returned; and Shiro lit his cigarette.

"Good luck", he said, shutting his lighter and handing it over to the Knight.

"No! No! My children!"

The exorcists jogged down to the garden: two to seal doors and windows with wards, and one heading to the window they had left open at the back of the house.

"My children…!"

Dawn flared golden, and the whisper drowned in roaring flames.

* * *

The house was only a glowing skeleton of blackened beams by the time Shiro ground out the cigarette under his boot. Matsuri-sensei's short, robed silhouette  
was explaining her authority to the firemen and the police at the scene. Shiro still stood in the park, watching. Detached. Ever since the day he cried in Kasumi's  
arms, he'd remained detached. Taking risks and succumbing to temptation were luxuries he couldn't afford anymore.

The head had gone chalk white in his grasp, tongue hanging out and eyes rolled back into the skull. It was silent now. He hadn't heard it over the fire, but he  
had felt the muscles under the skin work as its jaws and lips had repeated the same words over and over.

_My children.  
_

* * *

They look human, but they're not.

They act human, but they're not.

They can do anything.

…and he who fights with monsters might take care, lest he thereby become a monster.

* * *

**A/N: Nietzsche quote, **obviously**.**

**Nukekubi** don't have bad breath, but I thought they must have if they chew raw flesh every night. =/ I don't know if they traditionally detach neck-and-head,  
or just head; but if they attack by screaming, then it would make sense to me if the neck and the vocal cords came along. (Never mind how they force air  
through the windpipe without lungs~)

**Ramidreju **is the name of a Spanish creature: supposedly a weasel with a snake-like body, green fur, yellow eyes, and a boar's head. Its fur is said to cure any  
and every disease.

**Dear Dare mo  
**Good question! The way I write things, people without mashou see the body of Johann Faust when they see Mephisto, yes. The first time Shiro saw Mephisto,  
it was Johann that he saw. =) And yes, the statue does depict Mephisto, not Johann.

I was extremely simple-minded when I wrote that. x') I figured that Shiro saw Mephisto from a distance that first time, and was more focused on his outrageous  
principal's uniform (thus the transvestite sewer clown) than his looks. If you read chapter 3 again, what Shiro takes note of is a white tailcoat, a "pantyhose",  
and weird boots. He doesn't mention purple hair, because he doesn't see it: if he _had _seen it, he would've thought that was just as weird as the attire.

That he could see him turn into a dog despite not having a mashou, well… There's quite a difference in size and shape between a dog and a human. x') That  
kind of change would _have _to show, with or without mashou. I mean, if people without mashou still saw him as human, they would see the principal crawling  
around on all fours and hopping into pet flaps where he really wouldn't fit through… 0_o'

Going back to the question, my thought was that Mephisto and Johann were similar enough to look somewhat the same, if you spotted Mephisto for the first  
time and from a distance. So when Shiro saw the statue, he identified the transvestite sewer clown based on the clothes and didn't think so much about the  
face.

What I meant when I gave Fuji the line "he doesn't look it" was not "he doesn't look like that in reality", but rather "he doesn't look like he could be principal,  
with those clothes". Sorry for being unclear there. ^_^'

Your English works fine, but I'm glad I also had the Italian translation to double-check against. I really need to dust off my Italian… x'D I can still read, that's  
basically it. You don't have an account I can PM, no? That's unfortunate. I'm going to need Italian translations in the future. ^_^' (You over there, that Italian  
dude/dudette that's reading: give me a shout if you feel you want to help me write!)

/ Dimwit


	51. 103: Potion

**A/N: I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Shiro didn't notice anything different, at first, with the sparring sessions he still kept up with Mephisto. The demon was still far better than he was; far stronger, far  
swifter. He was still a tease, still pushed all the right buttons, still-

_Shiro didn't notice anything different._

…and when he had realised that, he also realised that telling Mephisto about it might not be a wise thing to do.


	52. 104: 2 of 6

**A/N: Refs to ch: 64, 91.**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created. Or Nietzsche. Or Göthe.**

* * *

So… how had he been made to come along on this again…? Heavens knew Shiro was _not _in the mood for amusement parks, yet here he was: kicking up dust on Mepphy Land's sun-heated asphalt in blue jeans and a threadbare old _Rolling Stones_ t-shirt. And Mephisto had already bought himself one balloon, one pinwheel, five packs of puccho candy, three of Hi-Chew, and two sets of takoyaki.

Between the art of politics, hair-flipping and whatnot, Mephisto's greatest artistic talent was, beyond a doubt, pestering-you-until-you-comply. Going to Mepphy Land had been on his to-do list all summer, and now that holidays were down to the last week he was _dead set _on going: and would drag Shiro along by the hair if need be. Their bet over the noodles hadn't helped, of course. If there was anything Mephisto _loathed_, other than uncleanliness and chewing gum, it was to be in debt. So yeah: to Mepphy Land they went.

"_…should I ask him?_" No, the possible uses for that information were too many. "_I could ask around the subject out of general interest. No need to mention it has practical application._" Mephisto would see through that. Mephisto was the _god _of words and riddles, dammit: he would see through his attempts at worming information out of him. "_I'll gather my own information. It should be enough just to observe and draw conclusions. 'cause, evidently…_"

Nothing was different.

"_Everything is different._"

There are various eyes, and as a result there are various truths. Nietzsche, was it? Germans and their damn consonants… Philosophy didn't come naturally to Shiro; or at least it hadn't, until he had had reason to question everything he thought he knew. Demons, exorcists, and those who were both and neither… it was a different world alright. Various eyes, various truths: various worlds. Glancing idly from face to face that passed them by, he wondered what kind of truths their eyes saw. What kind of worlds the people around him perceived. Not the same as he did, that much was for certain. Pff, there must be seven billion different worlds, as many as there were people with eyes to see it: and the only truth was that nobody truly knew what the world looked like.

His own world…? Shiro felt like he was watching it from a distance while everybody else trotted around unawares, like a scientist observing colonies of bacteria through a microscope. Queues and moving throngs of people provided him snippets of conversation about alien things like school plays, obnoxious colleagues, the upcoming Bon festival, or inviting close friends over for supper. The funny part was that those were everyday things. In some worlds.

"Keep brooding and you will have worry lines before thirty, young man."

Shiro's own world was brought back into focus by the merry chiding from one who was both an obnoxious colleague and a close friend.

"I thought we'd established that it would be a miracle if I even reached thirty?" he returned quicker than he could think.

"Live fast, die young, leave a beautiful corpse: won't accomplish that last one if you keep at it like this. Contrary to popular belief, I can't read minds", Mephisto confided with casual ease, "but it's no sport guessing what's eating yours."

That look. That green gaze from the corner of an eye: so very watchful, despite the drooping lids.

_Various eyes… various truths… and just how much of the world did those green eyes see?_

"You're lucky, Shiro; in many ways. Your slip-up could have ended much worse than it did." What a piece of art it was, that voice. Merry and casual as ever; and sincerity slipped discreetly in between the words, where you wouldn't notice it if you didn't know where to look. "And the women are easily numbered who would be mutilated by their partners and still forgive with honest heart. Fool's luck indeed." Mephisto shot him a knowing smirk. "Who knows? You might even make it to thirty."

* * *

…to say that Mephisto cared about his well-being may have been an exaggeration – at least if you asked the clown himself. Nonetheless, he put surprising effort into coaxing Shiro out of his gloom that day. One could almost be fooled into thinking the old demon had a human strain in him.

"You make such poor company when you drift off in thought."

…almost.

"Well, if it's action you want, I know one thing we could try", Shiro drawled, feeling the familiar wolfish grin return to his lips. "And if I win, I won't have to dye my hair pink this semester." Because he _really _didn't look forward to having this hair on his school ID card. "Are you up to it?" he asked, nodding his head at the colourful air gun stand ambiguously named _Mepphy Shooting_.

"You can hardly pick your home-ground for combat zone and expect me to step up to the challenge."

No, it would require some fine-tuned smooth talking first. Petting the dog and all that.

"I seem to recall I challenged _you _on _your_ home-ground last year, when I cut your hair", Shiro reminded with a shit-eating grin, knowing full well that taunting the dog can also work. If you know the dog.

"I shouldn't need to remind you that _you _are reckless beyond belief, while _I _am a tactician."

"Fancy way of saying you're too chicken to go outside your comfort zone." Yeah, that hit the right spot. Time to switch stick for carrot and sweeten the deal: "If you win, I'll let you pick what I wear this semester when I'm not wearing school uniform. _Anything you like_, until Christmas."

Oh, how his pointy ears twitched with interest at that! Shiro's _Rolling Stones_ t-shirt was doomed, as was his pride and reputation. Mephisto was tempted, very much so… but not quite convinced.

"I know firearms is your forte", he remarked with translucent disinterest. "That you would wager such a thing only serves to show my odds of winning are next to nil."

"Oi, I've got a splinted trigger finger." Shiro wiggled the recuperating appendage. "Is that not handicap enough for your royal wimpiness?"

That did the trick. Mephisto unloaded his food and souvenirs on the shooting range counter, and Shiro paid for two from his nowadays delightfully well-fed wallet.

The following five minutes confirmed that while Shiro was indeed a reckless idiot, he was also an observant tactician.

Demons have all the weapons they need from birth: claws, fangs, strength – some have magic, too. Humans don't stand a chance against that, and so create swords, guns, grenades and seals to even out the odds. Point being, humans rely on tools and demons rely on innate ability.

Mephisto had excellent motor control, as demons generally had. He was skilled with objects that worked as an extension of his body, such as swords, fans, and game controllers; projectiles, on the other hand… Demons have no use for long-range weapons: with their immense strength and regenerative abilities, they are predisposed for close combat. The opposite is true for humans, who benefit from ranged weaponry and having demons as far away from themselves as possible when fighting. All in all, when a human challenges a demon in the use of projectile weapons, it can really only end one way.

…yep, there was one more thing Mephisto loathed, besides uncleanliness, chewing gums, and being in debt: losing. Man, did he hate losing.

Very few knew that Mephisto had a temper – in fact, Shiro was willing to bet that _no one _knew that, save the servants of Faust Mansion who had been privy to the outbursts when an arcade game high score narrowly slipped their master's grasp. The reason no one knew was, of course, that Mephisto very rarely lost. The other reason no one knew was that when he did lose, pride forbade him to let the frustration show. Because the King of Time was always _in control_: of his games, of his environment, of himself.

…but he did make an adorable face when he sulked.

"So, you win. Not very unexpected."

Mephisto had taken his sweets and his souvenirs and left, before Shiro had even collected his prize.

"One moment, please!" the vendor cried after him when he'd started to jog after Mephisto. Shiro stuffed the plushie in under his arm to cup his hands together for something the vendor was holding out to him.

"Give Faust-san this, if you would be so kind? As a consolation prize", he said, placing the matchstick-sized toys in Shiro's palm with a plastic clatter.

Shiro had in all honesty intended to give the plushie to Mephisto – a huge white cat that looked more like a bread bun wasn't something he would ever have use for – but seeing the consolation prize… yeah. _This _was the right gift for the moping old clown. No doubt about it.

"Thank you", he said, and set off at medium pace. Mephisto was at the picturesque little pavilion that housed the cotton candy booth. "Hey, wait up!" And his ears were still dipping at a very displeased angle. "Here. The vendor got you a consolation prize."

"I don't need any consolation prize", he grumbled, biting off a wad of cotton candy that was not even remotely consolatory in nature. Not at all.

"No, but you never say no to free toys", Shiro returned with a smile and dangled the keychain with the two miniature mecha robots in. "Come on, it's a gift."

"Keep it."

"You're the one who's crazy about mecha anime", he pointed out, half running to keep up when Mephisto stalked ahead on his long legs. "And you're the master of keys."

"I already have a keychain."

"Have one more, then. They'll go fine with the dice for your collection." He slid the mini-mechas onto the pinwheel nave. "There: something to remember me by. Or at least remember what a pain in the ass I can be."

"Hmpf. Why would I want to commemorate a debacle?" he snorted curtly, but even so caught the keychain as it fell off.

Yeah, why…? The smile of a much older man ghosted the Esquire's lips when he spoke:

"'cause it's the bad things in life that teach you to treasure the good ones." No, philosophy hadn't been a natural part of Shiro's thinking. It was a cheesy  
thing to say, one he had never expected to hear himself say... But then he hadn't expected himself to bite off a girl's face, either. Tch... It's one of those  
lessons in life you have to fail before you lear-

"You sound like Johann."

Shiro snapped abruptly back to their conversation.

"Hm? You were saying?"

"It was one of those things Johann used to say when he wanted to make fun of me", the demon smiled to himself, hooking the keychain ring up with his claw and letting it slide down over his finger so as not to drop it. "He claimed it was one of the fundamental things that set humans apart from demons; and that it was something I, as a demon, would never understand, no matter how vast a knowledge of the human race I boasted. Naturally, I contradicted him." Naturally. _Besserwisser _was another word Shiro had learnt from Mephisto; a consequence of the many times he lacked proper name for the demon's bigheaded stubbornness. "Posthumously, I suppose I will have to give him right."

"Keep talking: I'll just nod and pretend I get what you're rambling about", Shiro enlightened as they rounded the brightly coloured house of mirrors and made for the slowly churning ferris wheel.

"The highest highs and the lowest lows of human existence", he chimed, voice bouncing as if he were reciting verse without rhyme. "That's what he asked of me in the contract he signed. All of life's pleasures I could understand", he mused, twirling the cotton candy stick absentmindedly between his fingers, "but I have never been asked to bestow all of life's suffering before. Or after. And yet Johann would claim that was the yearning at the core of every human heart. That pain would somehow add flavour to bliss. That inevitable loss made the battle sweeter than any victory." His brow furrowed in dissonant annoyance. "And when I claimed it was a simple matter of contrast and comparison, he just laughed at me."

"Suppose I'm not the only one who thinks it's fun to annoy you, then", he said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Oh, you're far worse than he ever was…" Mephisto muttered – and made Shiro's face crack into a full-blown grin.

* * *

Nothing was different. As much as it puzzled him, Shiro couldn't help but enjoy it. He enjoyed the food, the rides, the games – both he and Mephisto scored top results on the High Striker, and were rewarded life-sized plushies of Mephisto's dog form. Mephisto himself was not amused when Shiro drew angry eyebrows on his, but Shiro merely pointed out that the irked face made him look more like the modified plushie. He then proceeded with drawing dark crescents under its eyes, whereupon Mephisto poofed away his marker pen.

Nothing was different. And rather than wonder what dark truth lay behind that, Shiro chose to linger in the fleeting present and treasure the good moments life offered.

"So, what are your thoughts of tomorrow?" the demon asked, finishing his last takoyaki ball as coloured lanterns began to light the dusk around them. Mepphy Land was closing for the day, and a slight chill had surfaced out of the ground to help herd the visitors towards the exit.

"You tell me", Shiro replied, drawing a shallow breath on his cigarette. "It's a closed hearing with only the Arch Knights and the Branch Directors invited – how worried should I be?"

That is, would Mephisto have his back, or would he be on his own? It was something Shiro had thought of asking, ever since he had found the letter in his mail compartment. Now the hearing was only a night away, and he hadn't asked. Not straight out, at least. He wouldn't get a straight answer anyway, so he didn't see the need to bother.

…and relying on others had never been something he was good at.

"None too much, I'd say. They called you for a hearing, not a trial – which might only serve to let Beaumonde roast you without fearing objections from the Grigori, but what use is worry in situations like this?" Mephisto replied good-naturedly. "Make a good impression and leave the rest to the Knights."

Leave the rest to the Knights? Or to the Honorary Knight?

* * *

**A/N:**

**Hi-Chew **is a type of edible chewing gum. I think Mephisto would dislike chewing gum for several reasons: it's unhygienic to spit out food, it sticks everywhere, and it's something you taste but don't actually eat (like being teased with something pleasant but never allowed to consume it?).

**One of the things I love Göthe for **is all those existential observations woven into the verses. I don't know what the German version says, but this is the one I have:

Faust: _But thou hast heard, 'tis not of joy we're talking.  
I take the wildering whirl, enjoyment's keenest pain,  
Enamored hate, exhilarant disdain.  
My bosom, of its thirst for knowledge sated,  
Shall not, henceforth, from any pang be wrested,  
And all of life for all mankind created  
Shall be within mine inmost being tested:  
The highest, lowest forms my soul shall borrow,  
Shall heap upon itself their bliss and sorrow,  
And thus, my own sole self to all their selves expanded,  
I too, at last, shall with them all be stranded!_


	53. 105: A future bright with shadows

**A/N: Slight shout-out a story written by a certain Malady-magnet, who should make an effort not to be so magnetizing… ^_^'**

**Refs to ch: 67, 79, 90.**

By the way, this is your last chance to reveal my game before I do it myself in the next update. ;)

_(What the f* is Dimwit talking about?)  
_  
You haven't noticed…? Why, then I've done a good job! ^w^

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

"_Walking the plank_", some humorous side of him commented, as Shiro strode out on the narrow ledge above the black abyss.

Not that it had to be like that. It all depended on the decision the Knights made, after hearing him. All the highest officials of the order… He kept his gaze firmly  
fixed on a spot above the head of Leon Beaumonde, the Paladin, whose seat was at the far end of the long table. Ledges like his own reached out to the platform  
suspended at the centre of the room, each ending with a ridiculously high-backed chair. Shiro could see the purple curl of hair bobbing on the right-hand side…  
but he wouldn't betray his insecurity by seeking the Japanese Branch Director's eyes for support.

At the far end of the ledge – the plank – he stopped.

"One, you are not allowed to speak unless addressed", said the first speaker. Not in Japanese, of course not: but for a meeting hosting Branch Directors from  
all over the world, Mephisto had been tasked to place a spell on the room that let every tongue spoken be understood by the rest as if it had been their own.  
"Two, you are forbidden to repeat any aspect of the details discussed in this meeting. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"State your full name and affiliation, please."

"Fujimoto Shiro, Esquire, student at True Cross Academy in Japan, sir", his voice rang loud and clear in the aged stone arcs.

"And you are aware why you have been called here, Mr. Fujimoto?"

"I have been called because I attacked a woman while I was possessed. And because I am a potential vessel for Satan."

"Four months ago, when Sir Pheles reported your unusual compatibility with demons to us, you were permitted to keep your status as student at True Cross  
Academy on the condition that you learnt to shield yourself against demonic possession", said an aging European man with a prominent scar over the ridge  
of his nose. "Could you tell us about that development these months, Fujimoto?"

Shiro gave a methodical account of how he had become more and more apt at detaching from heart and emotion, how he meditated to maintain his focus  
under pressure, and how he had neglected to do either when spending time with his love interest. It did strike him that it would be tactical to linger on how  
much Kasumi meant to him, to use his youth and affection as excuse for the misconduct; maybe tug a few heartstrings around the table…

"_And confirm just how rotten I am_", he huffed darkly at the fancy, and related the event the way it had been: that he had been careless and caused a young  
woman irreparable damage, although it wasn't going to impede her everyday life.

"Are there any further questions to Fujimoto?" asked Nose-scar.

"I have a question", spoke a dark-skinned woman with hair like woven iron. "How come you are able to host Satan? What makes you different from others?"

"I think that question is best answered by Sir Pheles, ma'am", he replied.

"Why, I fear I will have to disappoint you, dear colleagues." There was a noticeable cringe, like ripples on water, travelling through the line of seated Knights. "All  
I can tell you is that Fujimoto-kun is different; how or why, I know no more than you."

"How do you know he's different, then, Honorary Knight?" Beaumonde inquired, making it perfectly clear that he considered no demon his colleague.

Mephisto braided his gloved fingers together and placed them neatly atop his crossed legs.

"No one knows the human heart like a demon", he responded with one of those _sincere_ smiles he reserved for psychological warfare. "I can tell he's different,  
but I cannot explain it to you any more than I can explain the smell of a soul."

"Is it possible there could be others like him?" the iron-haired woman resumed when she was given the word.

"I doubt it", Mephisto replied. "No human or demon has ever heard of a mortal able to host the God of Gehenna. Fujimoto-kun is a unique anomaly, a twist  
of fate with uncharted possibilities."

"In that case, I think he should be withdrawn from exorcist education post haste." A man with a big beard and a bucket-shaped headdress shot him a  
measuring gla-

"_Shot _it _a measuring glance_", Shiro corrected himself as the man spoke again:

"We're not serving Satan his meat-suit on a silver plate. The boy should be treated like all other dangerous artefacts: kept somewhere safe, for his own good  
and ours. Studied, if possible, to find out why he's compatible. We might even figure out how to prevent anomalies like him from arising in the future."

"Make him a lab rat, is that what you suggest? You know full well there's no walls or wards that can keep Satan out if he wants in", snapped a man Shiro  
recognised as Deslauriers; the man whose wife he had saved in the attack on Kiridani Ryokan. "The only wall we need to worry about is the one in Fujimoto's  
mind, and I've witnessed with my own eyes that he's perfectly capable of keeping that in place on the frontlines!"

"Order, Deslauriers", Beaumonde's deep, unrelenting voice smothered his countryman's. "You wish to leave reply, Nikodim?"

"I do", said the Beard, turning his attention to Deslauriers. "What if he's captured? What if demons grab him and torture him till he slips? We're all human,  
that's the point I'm trying to make", he said, gesturing with a thick, square lumberjack's hand. "We make mistakes. Most of us can afford that, but he can't.  
Better not take the risk at all in his case."

Shiro felt his heart sink in his chest at the many nods and murmurs Nikodim's statement drew. No, they couldn't do that – they couldn't lock him away in  
some Deep Keep cell and-

"If I may?" chimed Mephisto's familiar cadence. "The best defence is a good offense, I believe it's said. Rather than deny Fujimoto the training that would allow  
him to defend himself against such attempts, why not let him develop his full potential?" he suggested glibly, spreading his hands. "He does have a remarkable  
amount of it."

"Enough to hold his own against hordes of high-level demons?"

It was a good thing Shiro was forbidden to speak unless spoken to, or he might have delivered a snide retort to Beaumonde's barely concealed disdain. As it  
were, he didn't need to.

"Enough to hold his own against me", Mephisto responded pleasantly. "I owe my new haircut to our sparring." He flipped the decimated tress of purple hair  
and met the surprised glances with an easy smile.

"_Leave the rest to the Honorary Knight_", Shiro murmured to himself.

"As I'm sure you already know, Fujimoto-kun is a swiftly rising star in the Japanese Branch of the Order", Mephisto continued, weaving twirling trails of words  
to lead his colleagues down the garden path. "His expertise spans all five disciplines of exorcism; a field of work which he, if you'd excuse me for reminding you,  
was unfamiliar with up until a year ago. In this short time he has become the Academy's highest ranked Dragoon, secured the respect of Japan's most foremost  
family of Tamers, and been trusted to partake as Doctor in missions reserved for Junior Middle Class exorcists and higher. He is, in the best sense of the word,  
_unique_." A hand in purple glove swept gracefully in his direction. "Unknown potential stands here before us, perhaps the first of a new breed of exorcists in the  
Order's long history; and we would rather throw away this talent than make use of it? A terrible waste, I say."

"A precaution", stated a Chinese exorcist whose eyes were so narrowly slitted that she seemed to be talking in her sleep. "The Order has long experience with  
fighting demons without making uncertain gambles."

"I was a gamble when I was first accepted into the Order", he reminded softly, "and the addition of my abilities has brought you naught but advantages, even  
if I am a demon. Fujimoto-kun is human: a human whose abilities hold most useful promises for the organization."

"Can you guarantee us, then, that he won't be a threat to his comrades? That he won't become possessed again, and harm more people?" the Chinese exorcist  
demanded harshly.

"Guarantee, no. Nothing is ever guaranteed – not even the rise of tomorrow's sun." Mephisto spread his hands in an elegant gesture of unaccountability. "In  
a world that operates on the shifting laws of uncertainty, the only thing certain is that Chance can, at any time she pleases, turn the tables on Probability and  
render all our calculations redundant. When every choice is a gamble in its own right, the one thing we can do is trust Lady Chance's judgement when an  
opportunity like this is presented us."

"Silken words from a split tongue." The Paladin twirled his reservoir pen between his fingers as if he pondered how to kill Mephisto with it. "What you so  
eloquently try to pass off as fact is that we can't know he won't fall to Satan, and that we should put our trust in him simply because there is also the possibility  
that he might prevail."

If this was payback for his defending of Mephisto in Court over Christmas, Beaumonde had a _particularly _nasty habit of holding grudges long past expiration date.

"My good sir, I am willing to prove to you in whatever manner you see fit that my tongue is in no way forked", he replied pleasantly. "What I'm passing off as  
fact is that we can't calculate with our minds the outcome of our actions, and that the one thing we can then rely on is _faith_." His tongue curled around the  
word, caressing it gleefully as it leapt from his lips to grate nails over the Paladin's – the Vatican's Holy Knight's – ears.

"_Oh you're good, you're so damn good, you snake-tongued son of a bitch…_"

"As a demon, I consider myself a good judge of character", Mephisto continued in that soft, effortlessly resonant voice that reeled listeners in like fish on hooks.  
"I have followed Fujimoto-kun's development these past months, beyond the scientific reports I have sent to you. As for trust and faith and where they're due,  
I implore you to listen carefully, for these are words you aren't likely to hear from me ever again: I would place my life in this young man's hands."

Shiro didn't even register the reactions around the table. His attention converged at a single point in the universe, and the shockwave of the impact shattered  
it in a million incomprehensible fragments. He didn't hear the following questions among the Knights, didn't hear the silence of his still breath; for when a  
demon speaks truth… you listen.

"That might have something to do with Fujimoto being your friend."

The mention of his name tore the suspended moment out of his focus, and he started breathing again.

"As I said: a good judge of character", Mephisto deflected the Paladin's snide remark with a beaming, clueless smile. "One has to be careful when choosing  
friends and careful when choosing enemies – and careful not to get the two mixed-up, non, Beaumonde~?"

Shiro had seen that kind of face before, on Fuji every time he was late for class. That naïve ignorance that almost had you believing he truly didn't understand  
what he was being accused of.

It's one thing to see such a charade pulled by a harmless teenager, but when Mephisto did it… Shiro couldn't decide if his guts knotted because it was hilarious  
or because it was ominous. He scanned the faces of the assembled Knights, wondering what truth their eyes saw. Did they see the carefree quirk on display in  
the high-backed chair…? Or did they see the wicked glint in the corners of that bright smile?

"I think Sir Pheles has made a point that the rest of us have temporarily forgotten." The speaker was a man with skin like a panther, and the resonant voice  
granted by mass and volume. "Namely that this is a human we're talking about. A young man – in his own country he isn't even a legal adult. And yet he  
stands here, shouldering a burden no one his age – no one at all – should have to carry." He folded his fingers on the table in front of his burly frame, looking  
at each and every face at the opposite side. "I'm willing to believe Sir Pheles' account of him. As for the danger he potentially poses, I believe the saying goes  
'learning from one's mistakes'." Coal eyes settled on Shiro with the first hint of warmth he'd seen around the table so far. "You've seen the consequences of  
carelessness, Fujimoto. And I think you've learnt the hard way what carelessness can cost", he spoke softly; sadly.

"I have, sir." Seeing the cue of a rounded face tipping and black eyebrows rising, he continued: "And it's not a mistake I ever want to repeat."

Maybe he made a good impression; maybe Mephisto's smooth speech helped. Maybe Lady Chance was on his side, for once. In either case, Nikodim and Long  
weren't.

"We can't disregard the complications of Fujimoto's condition", the narrow-eyed Chinese persisted. "Why is he like this? What makes him different? How can we  
prevent his type of anomaly? These are questions that need answers – perhaps not by removing him from the field entirely, but at least detain him for a while  
to study his condition."

Many agreed on that – even Deslauriers, who had spoken out against it so sharply, grudgingly admitted that yes, those questions needed answers. But what if  
those studies didn't provide any answers? How long would he be "detained"? He didn't like it. He didn't like any of this… this hostility dressed in formal words  
and clothes. His feet were starting to feel sore from standing still so long, and-

"You say he's a friend of yours, Sir Pheles…?" Nikodim mused slowly, stroking his impressive beard thoughtfully. "And no human or demon has heard of a mortal  
that can host the Devil. I had never heard of a human having a demon for a friend, either. Could it be the two conditions are related, and that prolonged  
exposure…?"

Shiro tried not to tense up as the discussion veered dangerously close to the tru- The discussion came to a brusque stop when Mephisto erupted in pealing  
laughter.

"Ahahah-hah-haah~ forgive me my outburst, dear Knights, but this theory i-hihihi is rather entertaining. Why, 'demonicness' isn't transmissible by exposure,  
like some common cold", he snickered merrily. "Fujimoto-kun's compatibility with demons is innate: an integrated and inseparable aspect of his own essence,  
present in him from birth. Finding the cause for that is impossible – through your own doing, I should add. Clinical study of the human soul was banished by  
the Vatican over four hundred years ago. Unless you wish to revive that practice, and condone the wilful manipulation of souls, I fear Fujimoto-kun will remain  
a mysterious anomaly: a fluke, a one-in-a-billion possibility granted us by Lady Chance", he smiled, knowing perfectly well that the Vatican would never permit  
that branch of science to rise from the grave. "And if you allow that possibility to remain in the Order's ranks", he added, voice pitching a lower octave, "I will  
wager the name of the next Paladin is Fujimoto Shiro."

…if he could, he would have smacked a hand over Mephisto's mouth. As it was, he could only stand still and quietly burn to cinders under Beaumonde's glares.

"So, the devil has named his champion." The dry, chilly tone made Shiro wish he could go poof like Mephisto. "What are your opinions on that, Fujimoto? Do  
you see yourself as the next Paladin?"

"No, sir. I don't consider myself Paladin material." Damn the old goat, getting carried away like that…!

"That's the one opinion we have neglected to ask, I believe", said the current Paladin, lips curling faintly as he spotted easier prey than Mephisto. "What do  
you think of yourself, Fujimoto? What do you think of this situation? Should we trust you, as your friend says?"

What did he think of himself? Just what the fuck did Beaumonde think he thought of himself? Tch, but that was the whole point with that double-edged  
question, wasn't it? Make him bow his head in shame over what had happened, and say that he couldn't be trusted: would look both honest and modest,  
wouldn't it? Would be all Beaumonde needed to claim that he had consented to be subjected to whatever judgement the asshole Paladin decided on.

Or hold his chin up on the tattered light of the future he hoped for; claim he could be trusted, and give the impression that he thought Kasumi's injuries could  
be overlooked in favour of his own ambitions? Oh yes, what a good impression that would make.

"What I did was grave. It was a fatal mistake I can't ever forgive myself for", he said levelly. He must be mad, drawing upon what the imprint suggested at  
a time like this. "Regret can be either a strong paralytic, or a powerful motivation. In this matter, it will be both. I can never forget the mistake I made, and  
therefore I will never repeat it. Sir."

After another hour of nerve-wrenching discussion back and forth, of whether he should be detained or not, it was decided by majority vote that Shiro would  
be allowed to continue his studies and serve as an exorcist: but if he mishandled his obligations one more time, he would be stripped of his rights and serve  
the Order as object of study.

* * *

Their footfalls echoed hollow against centuries-old stone that bent its back in arcs above them, as if to peer down on the peculiar duo that marched through  
the Headquarters' catacombs. The dark corridors reminded Shiro of catacombs, at least, and not in a good way.

"_Is there even a good way for something to resemble catacombs…?_" he mused, glancing at the Roman statues that adorned shadowy alcoves along their  
path. "Some sales-pitch, that", he said dryly.

"Not my best performance, but it served its purpose. Wouldn't do for me to make it seem like there was a conflict of interest", he grinned and shot Shiro  
an impish wink. Hated to lose, loved to win. "You weren't half bad yourself. Really, Shiro, to have a way with words but never showing it is quite-"

"You don't think you could have left out the Paladin-part?" he cut in with a bit more acid to the tone.

"And miss the look on Beaumonde's face?" And all the glee he'd held in during the meeting exploded out of him in mad giggles and flourishing… pirouettes…?  
"Nihihihiii~ his face when I brought faith into the discussion – aah I couldn't stop looking at it kieheheheheheehee! Dear old stone lion, I'm sure he's twisting  
his mane into knots right now, thinking of Satan's vessel as the Paladin!" He brought the key ring out of his pocket and directly up in the air, spun a cackling  
whirl and caught the right key as they came down. "Haah, the religious: what would the world be without them~?"

The door they reached seemed as ancient as the grey stone enclosing it, its artful iron fittings nearly merging with the grain that rose out of the wood like  
veins on the back of an old man's hand. The key to Faust Mansion rattled in the complaining lock, and among the jingling keys an out-of-place string of dice  
was kept company by two equally out-of-place mecha robots.

"Stop screwing arooouund…!" Shiro groaned as they stepped thousands of kilometres into Mephisto's spacious study. "Why'd you have to go and say I would  
become the friggin' Paladin? Oh, right, 'cause you wanted to piss the current one off – good job with that – but _I'm _the one stuck with the Godzilla-sized  
expectations on my back!"

He couldn't make him stop, no. Mephisto loved to play, and loved to win; a demon down to the bone who loved to press buttons, pull strings, and lead humans  
along on whatever merry dance he chose. There was no breaking that addiction: but one thing Shiro would never allow was for the game master to use him  
as a gambling chip. Once stuck in that shadow web, you would never come out of it.

…and still, he couldn't help but skirt its edges, drawn by an equal measure of fear and admiration for the beauty of it. For the intricate thrills the soft strings  
whispered of, far below the surface layers of the world.

"Why so heated~? You would make an excellent Paladin, Shiro", the demon smiled blithely.

"Sure, an _excellent _Paladin", he mimicked snappily. "The only reason I'm not in an isolation cell right fucking now is that Beaumonde wants to see those  
madman ravings of yours fail, _miserably_: see _me _fail miserably! Joke around as much as you want with the guy, I don't care, but don't go dragging _me _into  
your crap!"

…Shiro had learnt, over time, to interpret a wide array of Mephisto's grins. There were grins of pure smugness, of gloat, of knowing-what-you-don't, of watching  
people wander lost in his labyrinths of words… and then there was the grin that stabbed him with the sudden remembrance that Mephisto's true name was  
Samael.

"Joke around…?" he purred low, smiling. "I do no such thing. I'm a good judge of character; and you", he poked a finger in Shiro's forehead, "will accomplish  
great things in life, little lion."

It was on his tongue to ask about the path of the future, and what forks and turns the King of Time had glimpsed on it. It was on his tongue to ask, but  
before his mind could question the wisdom in that Mephisto had moved on to other topics: namely, Shiro's hair. Which seemed to offend the demon no  
matter what was done with it.

"Just what were you thinking?" Mephisto's features settled somewhere in between insult and disgust as he yanked out a white hair.

"Make a good impression on the Knights?" Shiro repeated, rubbing the sore spot on his scalp through the prickly, barely a centimetre long hair. "I thought it  
would look better if I didn't come in there with pink hair."

"It's horrible", was the short verdict. "You look like a nail brush."

Really, why wasn't he a hairdresser? Weren't they usually gay anyway…? But before Shiro could piece together any prejudiced jibe of that, Belial was at his  
master's side. With a package that looked like it had been sent by express mail.

"Pardon my intrusion", the butler said with a bow. "As per your instructions, your highness, I have brought the delivery as soon as it arrived."

"It's here!"

One moment Mephisto was standing beside him, and in the next there was a lone white cape frozen in surprise before it fell limp to the floor. Letting human  
pretense fly, the demon darted for the package like a cobra. Belial managed the reverse manoeuvre, dropping the package and reflexively diving to save the  
cape. He caught it in time, and caught his own exasperated expression before his master noticed it.

"It's here! Look!"

The wrapping was gone in one swift motion, as of a magician pulling the tablecloth off a table and leaving all cutleries standing. Left in Mephisto's hands, held  
out for scrutiny like the Holy Grail in all its glory, was a Betamax cassette that Shiro had to read twi- no, three ti-

"What the…?" He leaned all the way into the cover of the cassette and pulled his glasses down to peer over the rim when he read: "'Grendizer, Getter Robo G,  
Great Mazinger: Kessen! Daikaijuu'. For real? You found a film with _all three _of those mecha crapbots?"

"Shush, you! I had it pre-ordered directly from Toei: this is the first tape of the first edition _ever_!"

Like his firstborn child, but much less noisy and in a much more manageable format; Mephisto hugged the cassette close to his chest and wiggled happily with  
a high-pitched, humming sound. (Shiro could have sworn for a second that his hair curl turned heart-shaped.) Belial stood at appropriate distance and watched,  
calculating behind a professional face whether he should stop his master from making an idiot of himself before a human, or if it was better to keep quiet and  
keep his job.

"Wanttowatchit?" he bubbled, even though he _knew _Shiro had no interest in mecha anime…

…but he also knew just how effective that childishly happy face was for persuading him.

Come on. It was like the cutest little puppy ever dropping a ball at your feet and looking up at you with eyes shining brightly with expectation. Exactly how  
that comparison was applicable to a one-ninety five tall demon was… unclear.

"Alright. _If _I get my own popcorn bowl." Shiro emphasized by crossing his arms.

"Why, certainly." He blinked in surprise. "What spawned that condition?"

"For one, you eat all of it when we share." Shiro unbuttoned his school uniform jacket with some difficulty for the splinted finger. "And two, you've got claws."  
He dropped a meaningful glance at the hands holding the videotape. There was no way Mephisto would dirty his gloves by keeping them on while eating  
popcorn. "Salt in scratch marks stings like a bitch." Ah, free at last from the garment that was far too warm for August. "Besides, I tend to lick my fingers.  
Can't soil the Princess' food with germs." Trap set…

A suggestive grin stretched Mephisto's lips to match his own.

"What makes you think I would object to sharing saliva, Shiro…?"

…and tripped.

"Well, it's the same fingers I use to pick up horseshit." Ah~ Shiro could see him cringe all the way out in the tips of his ears. "Love that look on your face,  
Princess. Hey, Belial-san – could you put this away for me?"

"Certainly, bocchan", the butler replied, accepting Shiro's school uniform jacket and putting it atop Mephisto's cape. "Your popcorns will arrive in a few minutes,  
your highness. Anything else?"

"Bocchan...?" Apparently, it was the first time Mephisto heard it.

"I'm trying to take over your mansion, haven't you noticed?" he explained with a face of mild surprise. "First I make your familiars like me, then your servants,  
then I get my own key – before you know it, I'll be the new master of the house."

…he should _so_ remember to make that the stake next time they had the opportunity to bet. Make himself master of the house for a day, and Mephisto the  
servant. Oh, the possibilities…

"That is one thing I can guarantee will never happen."

"Never say never to Lady Chance, Sammy", Shiro pointed out with a cheeky grin.

"Of course, if you were to marry me, you could be mistress of the house...?"

"Get that stupid mecha thing rolling already."

* * *

No, Shiro had no interest in mecha. That didn't really matter at the moment. The mental tension the hearing had exerted had left him more fatigued than  
training did, and he could think of nothing more relaxing than to be lulled to sleep by explosions and shrieks of giant sea monsters.

_I would place my life in this young man's hands._

Shiro smiled sloppily and lowered his eyelids over the anime. Took a pinch of popcorns from the bowl resting on his belly. I would tip once he fell asleep in the  
beanbag. Spill all the popcorn. Give Mephisto something to complain about.

That didn't really matter at the moment.

* * *

**A/N:  
**  
**Grendizer, Getter Robo G, Great Mazinger: Kessen! Daikaijuu** - yes, Toei made an anime film featuring all three of the biggest mecha heroes of that era.  
It aired in mid-July that year, so I suppose Mephisto must have paid _quite_ an amount of money to get them to make that tape so shortly after. xD But~ if you're  
a hardcore otaku and a multimillionaire, I suppose you'd think it was worth it.


	54. 106: Distance

**A/N: Refs to ch: 54, 87.**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Students were returning to True Cross Academy for the autumn semester – one by one like wandering pilgrims, or in flocks like migrating birds. Shiro watched  
from one of the tower aqueducts as they were dropped off by private chauffeurs in big cars, or by taxi; or, in a few rare cases, arriving by humble tram. All  
swallowed up into the grand honeycomb complex of the school.

Last year, he'd been walking up the endless, tiring staircases as one of them. Last year, he'd silently complained that nothing had changed over summer.

…well, no need to complain this semester.

Breeze tugged at his clothes, licked around his ears with unaccustomed chill, and made the pennon cord whip against the flagpole atop the tower. Somewhere  
down there, Midori and Sen were walking hand in hand through the gates, back from their long stay in the village of the Futotsuki clan. Somewhere down there,  
Ryuuji was dropping his bags when he unloaded them from his dad's car, probably still giddy with joy from his tour with the professional musicians. Somewhere  
down there, they would meet up with Shizuku and relate their summer adventures.

Shiro rolled his shoulders a couple of times with satisfying creaks, as if to shrug off unpleasant weight. He had thought of going to meet them, too… but his  
feet had thought different, and he'd ended up here instead. Watching from a distance.

* * *

Another unreliable word. Distance. Gaps in time and space, separating one thing from another. That's all it is. When you think too long about it, that's all it is.  
Distance between electron and proton create atoms, distance between atoms create chemical elements, create gases, liquids, solids, matter, _life..._ Distance in  
time separates one life from another. One event from another. Allow things physically separate to be chronologically contemporary.

There was a distance between him and his peers, one that went beyond four dimensions. There was a distance between him and himself; steadily growing more  
solid, more rigid, like the crystalline sharp decisions it enabled him to make in the field in split seconds.

Distance equated safety. It was the iron bars that kept him secure. It was the moat that kept his friends secure should his prison walls crumble. It was the  
inter-substance in all substance, and it was the cornerstone of the universe.

But what was it, truly? Distance? On the sub-microscopic level, where the tiniest building blocks of matter dwelled, what was there that kept them separate?  
Between one breath and another, what was it that flowed smoothly between the instants recognised as time and strung them together in continuity?

Was there nothingness…? Or was there something humans lacked the faculties to perceive? A _something_ between dimensions, wedged in like mortar to connect  
yet separate matter, time, and the very world humans called Assiah? Was it something that seeped into the cracks of creation, filling them with distance, and  
parted matter from matter with something that… was not matter? Was not physical, nor bound by time as physical matter was? Something that allowed spirits  
of Gehenna to seep through cracks, bridge the distance, and become part of matter that let them move in a world of substance that was otherwise foreign and  
harmful to them…?

* * *

It didn't take many days before the questioning began. It came like rain in early autumn: a wary dripping of hinted concern at first, which grew into a pelting  
downpour when his chilly replies didn't part the clouds of worry.

They all knew what had happened to Kasumi. They had been grief-struck, supportive, understanding... and he had accepted their soft words with downcast eyes  
and a wan, painted-on smile.

They knew he was targeted by demons, that he had to shield himself against them. Sure, they asked why. He told them he didn't know. They asked why he had  
to do it inside the Academy area – didn't the magical barriers keep demons out? He told them it didn't matter. That they should just let it go.

Friends are wonderful that way. They really want to help you. No matter what you have to say about that.

* * *

"Shiro-kun, this is no good. Come."

Of course, Midori was the one to break all unspoken rules of social conduct. Problems found were to be solved, not left alone because their bearers wanted it so.  
She marched him to the corner of the schoolyard that bore themes of the ancient Near East, and seated him on the lower tier of the round fountain.

"Sit", she commanded him; then vaulted up on the lion statues that fed the fountain water, skipped from head to head around to the other side, and hopped  
out of view. She came around on the pavement seconds later, herding a nervously determined Ryuuji along.

"You are not well, Shiro-kun. Here, you are not well." Midori patted her chest urgently with a clawed hand as she sat down on her haunches next to him.  
"Please", her whole being poured into the request, "let us help you. Sorrow is good thing, not bad thing: _keeping _sorrow is bad thing. It grows inside. It eats  
you." Her touch was tender, so tender; barely detectable fingertips gliding over his chest. "No need to put defence down, Shiro-kun. Only talk. Talk begins here",  
she pressed her hands onto his chest; warm, slender hands, "goes through heart", her hands met over his sternum, "and sets sorrow free." Fingers flowed up  
his throat, light as the wings of seagulls skimming tranquil water. Midori was so close he could feel her breath against his chin, her golden eyes so near he could  
barely keep them in focus.

So close, yet the distance was there.

"We breathe in, and feed world to the heart", she murmured low against his lips, hands still cupping his face. "We breathe out, and feed heart to the world."

"Mmph…!" The pure shock of the kiss left him flabbergasted, at a complete loss for-

"Words are breath of the heart, Shiro-kun", she murmured, smiling, as she released him and hopped a step back. "Won't do to let your heart suffocate."

"Uh… o-kay…"

In her place, Ryuuji sat down next to him. Fidgeted with the keychain on his school satchel; caught himself doing it, and laid it gingerly to rest on the black fabric.

Shiro had plenty of time to notice that Ryuuji had grown over summer. Grown thinner, grown taller, grown… inwardly. The brown eyes were still shy and darted  
for cover when confronted, but his posture held a new confidence, and his voice held only traces of his former stuttering when he spoke:

"I figured you wouldn't, you know… come and talk by yourself. I remember you said some time that you don't rely on others. So I asked Midori-chan if she could,  
uh, catch you." He glanced shamefacedly first at Shiro, then at Midori. The latter seemed quite happy with her catch. "Sorry about how… she only said she could  
get your attention, so I trusted her", he said with an embarrassed chuckle. "I just thought I should talk to you. It's not easy, this kind of thing." Ryuuji folded  
his hands together, stroking thoughtfully at the irregular callusing from steel strings. "When Agari-chan died, I didn't know what to do. It was like there was no  
light in the world anymore. I couldn't see any point in anything, and I wanted it all to disappear. I-"

"Ryuuji, you don't have to do this", Shiro murmured quietly.

"It's okay", he ensured, having no idea what images were currently flashing like lightning through Shiro's mind. "I mean, it still makes me sad when I think  
about it, but the pain dulls with time. It's not the same as you and Kasumi-chan, I know. I just want you to know that it does get… wouldn't say 'better', but…  
easier. But you need to stop thinking 'what if'. It's only going to drag you down. I had… god, I must've had thousands of 'what ifs'", he murmured, shadows of  
remembered pain nesting in the fine creases between his eyebrows. "Like, 'What if I had been there when the demons came through?' I used to dream I was,  
you know. I used to dream I saved her", he said with a faint smile, "even though I can't shoot or chant or use a sword."

"Look, I understand how you must have felt, but those are two different situations."

"Different situations, yes", Ryuuji agreed sagely. "But you look like I felt."  
_  
Blood. Pearls of blood tearing from a flowing red necklace. Bright as wet paint. You wouldn't think blood had that colour in real life._

"I hated myself, for not being there when she needed me", Ryuuji continued, murmuring to his knees. "I took the blame, like you do now. Because it had to  
be _somebody's _fault, you know?" Oh, he knew. He knew damn well whose fault it had been. "Shizuku-san and Midori-chan helped me acknowledge that it  
wasn't my fault – that's what I mean by relying on people." He flashed a glance at Shiro; a thrown rope, an outstretched hand. It lasted a split second before  
he looked down at his folded hands again. "I was still sad, sure I was, but… it was a step on the way. Once I let go of 'what if', I could mourn. Just… truly mourn.  
And it was like a cleansing. I started to dream I wasn't saving her, just being with her. Holding her as s-she died. Saying goodbye." His voice broke; broke off in  
sharp edges that cut through Shiro's iron bars. "And when I could do that, I knew I w- I was starting to let it go."

"Ryuuji, stop." He closed his eyes, focused, tried to keep the distance through the nauseating feeling gathering in his chest. "_Why can't you just stop and let  
me forget?_"

"I heard Kasumi-san forgave you", he heard Ryuuji say, voice muffled through a paper tissue. "I think that's… she's such a great person. A truly wonderful,  
great person."

"_That I almost killed._" Lies weigh heavy on one's conscience? "_Try having truth on your conscience_", he spat, but the weight – the nausea – didn't ease.

"It's important to forgive. I know it's hard, but you should forgive yourself, Shiro-san. It's the first step towards letting go and moving on."  
_  
Black eyes became glass marbles. Blank, shiny marbles, rolling back in her skull and she fell, she fell and burning stars of warm blood speckled his face and  
_  
"…to know is that it's not your fault", the half-demon's voice drifted back into his ears. "And you don't need to carry all this weight alone. We're here for you.  
That's what friends are for."  
_  
Agari-Midori-Agari fighting his friends at the Knight exam with blood on his hands blood flowing over Kasumi's hands and she stared with wide frightened eyes-_

Distance, _distance_, dammit…!  
_  
-Midori's wide golden eyes reflecting his blade Agari's black marble eyes rolling back in her head  
_  
Stop it, stop it, sto-

"Stop!" he'd said out loud before he knew what he was doing.

Midori and Ryuuji both stared at him. Except it wasn't him. Their eyes reflected the image of a stranger standing by the glittering water canal.

"Just stop this, guys." His voice was off, way off, but he couldn't just cry out 'stop!' and leave it at that. "I know you wanna help, but I can't do this. _Please_.  
Just let me deal with this on my own."

Ryuuji was still in a daze; but in Midori's sunlight eyes, a firestorm was building. And Shiro knew he'd said the wrong thing.

"You aren't dealing with it, Shiro-kun", she said grimly. "All day you sit, holding breath and holding in. I am only half, and I still smell rot in you."

He had thought it a few times before; how similar Midori and Mephisto could be. Not in personality, not at all, but… body language. The way they seemed to  
crackle with impish joy when they knew something he didn't, the way they moved so casually yet so sensually: and the way they could, in a single flash,  
snap into a diametrically different mood.

"You're right. My bad." Tch, he sounded like a talking toy mechanically repeating its message. "I just find it difficult to…" As effective as stapling his tongue to  
his palate, dammit. "I never did talk much about feelings, okay? It wasn't exactly part of the family tradition."

"No excuses, Shiro-kun", Midori pursued relentlessly, hopping down from the fountain to poise herself in front of him, nailing his objections stuck in his brain  
with her glare. "You are not your family. You are stupid. You know problem, you know solution: you do nothing. So, you are stupid. We try to help you, and  
you say no." Her eyes were craggy rocks, her voice the coating of ice on their surface. "You don't treat friends well, Shiro."

Shiro knew what she was doing; knew it because he understood demons and how they worked. Midori was riling him up. Trying to provoke him to blurt out  
what he couldn't bring himself to say under civilized conditions.

"This isn't a good way of helping, you know", he said coolly, holding her hard eyes in his. "Provoking me will only make it harder for me to keep my guard up.  
If you really want to help, just leave me be."

"I won't!" she shouted, frustration glimmering in her eyes and trembling in her voice. "I won't let you be stupid! Talk doesn't need you to let guard down!  
Only _talk_, Shiro-ku-!"

"I don't wanna talk about this." He turned to leave, to end this conversation before it ended badly. …before it ended worse.

"You smell rot, Shiro! You smell guilt and regret and shame and is not, your, _fault!_"

He heard Ryuuji's voice intermittently in the waves of Midori's rage, telling her to give him time. That he would talk when he was ready. That he probably had  
a lot to deal with.

Memories clotted in his throat, sealed his breath in as he paced briskly over the well-maintained lawns. All the while, his heart thrummed the rhythm of flight  
instinct in his ears. All the while, he sagged under the weight of truth as he put a greater distance between him and… everything else.


	55. 107: Overture

**A/N: I don't really do song-fics, but to accompany the reading of this piece I would recommend the song I listened to when I wrote it:**

_**Symphonic Poem GeHeNa First Movement: Mephistopheles**_

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Humanity has always held my keenest fascination  
this fickle breed of Want and Lust to good intentions wed;  
inherent slaves in servitude to gnosis and temptation  
all driven by this heedless Urge to know what lies ahead

It is this basic trinity of humankind's complexion  
these supple strings that operate your every action thence;  
decide the path ahead at every crossroad intersection  
and weave the blindfold tapestry called Choice and Consequence

It pleases me, I won't deny, to see those strings entangle  
and watch how careful choices snare your feet and tie your tongue;  
for by the time your path ahead has paved a dead end angle  
I wager from my fingertips I'll have you nicely strung

Though demons do tell lies, I'll tell you one thing that is certain;  
the greatest Lie since time began 's the one that you call Fate;  
the Truth it hides is unseen hands at work behind the curtain  
and human heartstrings played for symphonies of love and hate

Behold as I conduct my grand ensemble with a feather  
as silver words I smith to chain a certain white-haired stud;  
and when at last that curtain rises he shall wear my tether  
for plays are more exciting when the script is penned in blood

The stage is set for tragedy, the climax has been written  
the strings are all attached and Fate waits eagerly to play;  
our cast is tuned, by wilful choice, to love with hatred smitten  
and now that you are here we can begin without delay

You wish to know what lies ahead, if I am not mistaken?  
The thought of anguish and misfortune thrills my audience~?  
Won't do for me, a gentleman, to leave your hopes forsaken  
so take your seats, my dears; our second act shall soon commence

'tis time! I hear my cue: the clarion call of bar bells tolling  
with vows of one terrific show I bid you my farewell;  
I'd love to stay and watch, but there's a ball I must set rolling  
and see to it that curtain fall is borne on bedrock knell

* * *

**A/N: …you thought I was done ruining Shiro's life? =u= No no no. *Dimwit's horns grow out to full length* Breaking a soul is a drawn-out  
process. Writing this chapter was also a drawn-out process (three months or so), so if it's not too much trouble I hope you take the time to  
read it through a few times and ponder its contents carefully.**

**Today is my birthday, **which is why I saved up these chapters for the occasion. I can't think of a better gift to myself (or to you) than to introduce you to  
the true nature of _Inferno arc,_ and leave you with this cliffhanger so I can hear your frustrated screams aaaaall the way to Sweden. ;9 Cheers, everyone,  
and thank you so much for reading!


	56. 108: Tacet

**A/N:**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

It wasn't the lies. It wasn't the secrets. Hell, they hadn't even been secrets: his mom had known all along that his dad had another. But it wasn't the adultery,  
or the lies, or the promises broken before they were made. It was the silence.

Shiro remembered it in numbing detail. The silence that had permeated every word, every gesture, every act in the theatre that had been his family. The silence  
of things that were never be said, but always known.

He had wondered, in his childish attempts to break the silence with rage, who they had been performing for. Who was there to applaud their flawlessly delivered  
lines, except the photographs on the walls? Who was there to judge their still-life interpretation of a model family? Who was there, except the actors: suffocated  
in painted masks, bent broken in roles learnt by heart.

He'd been a "problem child": the kind who always got in trouble and fights. How unfortunate, relatives had said. Devoted parents and good income, and still he  
turned out like that. Hopefully he'd grow out of it. Boys will be boys, you know?

And no matter how he fought, or screamed, or misbehaved, nothing could break the silence. Nothing was allowed to disturb the performance. The dollhouse  
walls stood firm, the play went on, and on, and on, and…

Then it ended. Without applause, without encore, silence reigned supreme. The stage was sold to cover debt, and all inventories and decor that no longer filled a  
purpose were auctioned out. And he was alone. A problem child that was never silent, as little problematic children ought to be.

A lone cardboard box of personal belongings had been left in storage. Nobody knew what to do with it. No one wanted such things: crayon drawings, a tattered  
baseball glove, a baby blanket washed colourless, photographs of a model family – a silent audience, leaving when the show was over.

The problem child had been left in storage. Nobody knew what to do with him. No one wanted such things.

* * *

He had inherited various things from his parents: children tend to do that. His dad's hair. His mom's hands. His dad's winning smile.

His mom's drive to do everything he could for the people that mattered.

His dad's inability to sort out problems before they piled up high and buried him.

And though he'd fought, and screamed, and resisted, the silence had found him and forced its inheritance on him.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Dear Dare mo  
**Sorry for the last part of my reply. ^_^' I might need somebody who speaks Italian to translate from English to Italian for me. I can tell from the reading  
statistics on TEotB that I have Italian readers, but I don't know how to reach them: so I "shouted" at them, hoping that somebody would contact me. (I bake  
very nice cakes as reward. 0w0 ) You deserve a cake as well, for the inhuman patience you must have to translate English fics. x') No need to defend yourself!  
If you have to translate, then those small details are the ones that will suffer in the process. (…who wouldn't want to see the multimillionaire Johann Faust V  
crawl around and behave like a dog, though? xD)

If Shiro had lost in [arc 2 ch 52]? Well, I doodled something in BtEatB for that. ;)

**Dear Vee**  
You put me in a difficult position here: I should apologise for the problems I'm causing you, but I don't think I can do that and actually mean it. x') That's  
incredible to hear, in the rawest semantic sense of the word. Really, thank you. *awkward blush* There _are_ plenty of awesome authors around: the problem is  
finding them. The one who's been the greatest inspiration for me, and whom I keep recommending to everyone I meet, would be Patrick Rothfuss. The  
wordsmithing, detail, love and sheer brilliance he puts into his writing is nothing short of divine.


	57. 109: Crescendo

**A/N: Refs to ch: 11, 36, 55, 107.**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

He had plenty of spare time, now that he had technically graduated from high school. Special schedule ate that up quick enough, though. Attending classes with  
the senior exorcist students. Writing extra assignments. Helping Moriyama Mayu with her garden and receiving private tutoring in pharmacognosy.

Model student. Two words that left a bitter ring of irony in his ears.

August shone brightly on the white facades of the campus buildings. It was lunchtime, but most students chose to linger in the corridors for the benefit of air  
conditioning. Shiro was already headed to the Eastern library to do some in-depth reading on the migrating patterns of water demons. Kohu-sensei had assigned  
him another extra paper to work on. He needed to work on his academic writing, she said, because he would be required to write candidate and master papers  
in later years: "academic writing" meaning using words that nobody except Mephisto knew, as long and confusing sentences as possible, passive voice preferably,  
and under _no _circumstances was any average human being supposed to understand a shit of-

"Shiro! Shiro!" Shizuku's voice dangled on the last thread of his breath. He must've run quite some distance; otherwise he had the same unending stamina  
Kasumi had. "Shi-haah bloody hell ye're a hard one ta haah track down…"

There was something… off… For while Shizuku panted and sweated, as you'd expect from one who comes running like a madman on a warm day, his face was  
a disturbingly pale shade of the usual tan.

"What's the hurry?" He stopped on the slope rising up to the library building, waiting for Shizuku to catch up and catch his breath.

"Ye haven't heard? Haah no, of course not. The Kita shit-head's spreading word that ye're Satan's host vessel."

"He's what…?" Shiro felt his lips form the words, but couldn't hear if he said them or not. He could see Shizuku's chest heave beneath the damp shirt, but  
heard no breath wheeze from his mouth.

Then sound came rushing back in. Like water through an opened dam, choking him with nausea.

"'e's saying ye're Satan's vessel in Assiah", Shizuku repeated while wiping sweat from his brow. "Claims haah claims 'e heard it from grandparents working at  
'eadquarters, or somethin'."

Yes, Kita had grandparents in the Vatican… in the Council… in the _archives_… oh god, oh _god_…

He could feel it creaking, the world around him; breaking apart, like a ship groaning in full storm.

"Oi, d'ya hear me? Shiro-san?"

When he snapped back, Shizuku was watching him like one would watch a dog that might-or-might-not have rabies. Watchfully. Tensely. Suspecting, but hoping  
he was wrong.

"_What do I do now…?_"

His reactions had already betrayed him. And even if he denied the claim, there would be others who asked. And sooner or later, when enough people had heard  
and enough people asked, the truth would come out. All because of bloody Kita Yaonaru.

"Where is Kita?" Shiro heard himself ask.

Shizuku had expected… what had he expected? Not those words, that was for sure. It took him an extra moment to replay the question. Enough time for  
residual doubt to evaporate.

"Ye mean…?" His eyebrows drew together, as if he still couldn't believe, still couldn't be sure unless he heard it out loud. "It's-?"

"It's true."

He'd been to the river once, with his mom and dad. Early spring, when the leaves were still sleeping in their buds. His dad had hoisted him up to sit on his  
shoulders, so he could see the vast sheet of ice that blanketed the water. Winter had begun loosening its grasp on Japan, and so the ice had begun to reluctantly  
release the river from its hibernation in the white cocoon. All the way up on the riverbanks, they could hear its birthing pain: gunshot cracks and agonized  
groans as ice broke, collided, ground into and up on top of each other. Like a herd of slow, panicked cattle struggling for their lives in the pitch-black water.

He'd watched, breath held, as nature demonstrated her raw power over the elements. It was the same awe-inspiring force that streaked his skin with goose  
bumps during thunderstorms. Mesmerising. Terrifying.

It broke. It broke, like one massive sheet of ice; shattered the façade covering the cold, dark truth. The silence. The world. All of it… shattered.

"It's true", he heard himself say. Terrified. Mesmerised. Not quite believing that the silence was finally broken. "I'm a compatible host: that's all there's to it.  
I'm still just a normal guy aside that. Where did you last see Kita?"

If he could find Kita, he could find the source. Stem the leak. Damage control. Maybe, _maybe _he could save something in this shipwreck of spilling secrets.

"What are…? Ye... how can…?"

Fractured questions and disbelief swirled over Shizuku's features, dropping assorted words onto his tongue; a hurricane sweeping through his mind and tearing  
up what he had thought he knew. And in the eye of the storm, in the deadly calm in the midst of chaos, one word anchored in his thoughts with hostile certainty:

"Pheles", he hissed, eyes darkening with thunder clouds. "What did he do te you?"

"He has nothing to do with this", Shiro replied coolly, not wanting to ignite Shizuku's temper. "He-"

"Don't ya dare protect his ass, Shiro", Shizuku snarled through bared teeth, stabbing a finger harshly at him. "Ye know damn well no one can host Satan, so  
don't go fuckin' lyin' ta me. This 'compatibility' thing stinks o' demon magic."

"You can't 'make' a human compatible with Satan", he pushed, trying to appeal to reason although Shizuku was probably agitated far beyond that point. "No  
one can do that. I had host potential from birth, and-"

"An' when Pheles noticed that, 'e wound you round 'is little finger ta develop it?!" the pilgrim snarled viciously. "Do ya hear ye'se-"

"He noticed when I started attracting demons, and ran tests to figure out why", Shiro snapped back coldly. "It turns out I developed my potential perfectly well  
on my own, as the stupid fuck I am. Mephisto did nothing."

Shizuku looked like he was about to shout back, or punch him, when the black fury in his eyes faded… and became something infinitely worse.

"When ye started attracting demons…?" he repeated. Slow and steady. A rising river that will eventually sweep away everything it touches; and there's nothing  
one can do to stop it.

"_No… shit, no…_"

"Ye started attracting demons in April. No, in February. When ye were found on that balcony." Ice. Tendrils of frosty lace eating into Shizuku where he stood,  
fists clenched and knuckles white. "How long did ya know?" You could see him bristle visibly; see the low, ominous tone in his voice vibrate in every hair. "How  
long did ya know this without telling us? Without telling my _sister_?" Any moment now, his vocal cords would become so tense they snapped. "Or you were  
gonna wait an' let Satan tell her when he took yer-"

"I've known since April", he cut off. Not that he wanted to speak. But he couldn't bear to listen. "I didn't ask for this shit, and I never meant to do anything to  
Kasumi. You have to realise that, Shizuku: I never _intended _to do any har-"

"Ye don't get ta fuckin' call her by name!" Shizuku shoved him hard enough in the chest that Shiro staggered backwards on the path. "What bloody _intention_?!  
What the fuck did ya _think _would 'appen?! Ye shouldn't 'a gone near her at all!" Another shove, with all of his weight behind it.

"I made a _mistake_." He grasped for Shizuku's wrists, bracing himself against the thrust. "A huge bloody mistake, but I never-"

"Lemme tell ya what fuckin' _mistake_ ye made, ya little shit", he hissed, black eyes boring into Shiro as he pressed forward, arms trembling with rage and strain  
in the tight grip. "Ya chewed my sister's face off, all because ya think with yer dick instead o' yer head!" Shizuku tore free and barrelled into him, using his  
advantage in weight and height to knock him down on the stone.

Fists, knees, elbows – Shiro couldn't tell what was what as they grappled for any extremity they could catch. Besides, he had to be careful not to be too rough  
on Shizuku. Easier said than done.

"Get a hold of yourself, dammit!" Finally. He was pinned down on his back, but he managed to lock the pilgrim's wrists and hold him fairly still. "I'm sorry – more  
sorry than you can ever imagine! What else do you want me to say?!"

Nothing. There was nothing he _could _say: he knew that the split second he looked up at Shizuku, before the latter's forehead came down hard on the bridge of  
his nose.

Feelings aren't good at thinking. Feelings like fear, and love. And betrayal.

Shizuku had lost two sisters to demons. Because of a friend, he'd almost lost the third.

Shiro's glasses wouldn't budge, but dug hard into his nose bone. He wrenched Shizuku off of himself, groaning and feeling a choking hotness fill his nostrils.  
Staggering to his feet, he wiped the worst away with the back of his hand, spitting the rest on the walkway. Shizuku braced himself to get up, but flopped back  
on the ground in a hailstorm of hissing curses.

Screw damage control. Screw stemming leaks. The ship was sinking, and there wasn't a fucking thing he could do about it.

"I call you forth to tell the just from the corrupted, to judge and exact judgement; to hunt the guilty down from the domes of the sky to the pits of the  
underworld." The summoning circle heated in his shirt pocket, and the smell of burnt brimstone mingled with the blood in his nostrils. "Lead me to Yaonaru Kita.

The great white hound looked at him, bared its teeth at him, and he was about to give the command again when he realised it wasn't going to contest him.

The damn thing was laughing. A hoarse, racking sound accompanied by gushes of sparks over the lolling tongue. Then it turned and took off down the slope.

* * *

Rage is often likened to fire. A rabid, reinless heat that explodes and destroys anything it touches. It devours mind, reason, pain; friend, enemy… Fire burns  
everything.

And if it can't explode, it will implode. Behind the iron bars of self-control, Shiro's rage imploded in a cold, searing flash. Cold rage burns reason, not mind. It  
burns the restraints off cruelty and blackens its edges with hatred, flames converging and concentrating with deadly precision wherever the mind wishes it.

Shiro's mind was set on finding Yaonaru Kita.

* * *

He found the hellhound in one of the boys' dorms. It paced restlessly outside the showers on the third floor, grunting and snorting at the door. There was a ward  
painted on the wood – probably one on the inside, too. The handle turned without gripping the latch when he tried it.

Fucking rat.

"Not man enough to face the people you badmouth, Kita?" he spoke loudly to the door. Waited. Nothing. "I'm dismissing my familiar. Either you come out, or I  
come in."

Nothing. The miasma had almost dissipated after the hellhound's leave, and no sound was heard from the shower room.

"_Fine._"

Shiro backed a step and braced himself before kicking sideways at the door, just below the lock.

"_I'll get you._"

He kicked again, and heard the wooden frame groan.

"_I'll fucking get you._"

Third kick; the door burst through the frame in a cascade of splinters. Metal lockers, kept company by latch-work baskets, a couple of left-behind bottles of  
shampoo – Shiro threw the glass doors apart with a jarring crash and marched into the tiled bathing area beyond. A row of showers lined the long wall, and in  
the opposite corner was a wooden dais with a traditional tub lowered into it.

Shiro fell into tunnel vision when he spotted Kita next to the dais. He would be "Satan's vessel" to the whole school, and it was that little prick's fault. He would  
lose Shizuku and he would lose Kasumi, and it was that _blabbering _asshole's fault…!

Distance melted away under his feet. Kita came closer, closer; unmoving. Just stood there, waiting for it. On some primal level, Shiro had hoped that he would  
run. Beg. Whimper. _Suffer_.

Wouldn't be too difficult to fix. All he had to do was grab his fucking face and slam his head into the wall. So easy. Just like cutting the head off that nukekubi.  
Everything is so easy when emotion can't impede the mind. And Kita would pay. He would fucking pay for ruining peoples' lives.

_Can't do that._

Blessed be the shackles of focus and restraint, otherwise he might have been the Order's lab rat already.

"That meeting was closed and classified." Shiro heard his voice ricochet against the tiles, barely recognisable in his own ears. "And still you put your grandparents  
in some deep fucking shit just so you could get to me, you little asshole."

"To you?" Kita drawled sarcastically. "I told you, I couldn't care less about you. You were given a fair warning – and still here you are, faithful as a dog at Pheles'  
feet." Warning? What, did he mean that chat they had when Shiro shoved him into a wall after Tamer exams? "As things stand, we can't bring down Pheles;  
but we can throw a spanner in the works and disable his tools." Kita mustered a stiff toss of his head to get the fringe out of his eyes. "Nothing personal,  
Fujimoto. We all make sacrifices from time to time: think of yourself as collateral damage."

"I'll show you fucking collateral damage", he snapped, grabbing hold of Kita's shirt and pressing his lower arm against his throat. "For leaking classified  
information from closed hearings, perhaps?" Shiro hissed, centimetres from his face. It would be so easy, so _delightfully _easy to beat him into minced meat,  
right here and now… "Maybe the Order would look the other way, even?"

This close, Kita's skin was waxen; his pupils were reduced to quivering pinheads, his larynx bobbed frantically beneath Shiro's arm. The guy was scared shitless.

"Don't be stupid", he snorted: a complete contradiction to his body's signals. One that made Shiro's scowl deepen with confusion. "I wouldn't spread information  
I had no right to. I knew you were Satan's chosen since Pheles informed Headquarters four months ago. No need to worry about my grandparents, for that  
matter: the contents of that report weren't as strictly classified."

What? Just… what?

"You knew all this time, and _now _you…?"

"It wasn't until now I learnt of your obscure involvement in the barrier failure last spring." A twitchy smirk ghosted Kita's features. "My condolences, Fujimoto,  
but you're simply too useful to Pheles to be allowed to walk free."

No. No, no, no, this didn't add up. This did _not _add up. Kita acting this cocky, when he was close to practically pissing himself?

"How about you stop lying to my face and tell me what's really going on?" he said grimly, and increased the pressure against his throat to make the threat more  
tangible. To buy time. "_He's wincing like he expected me to sock him every time I move, and yet he keeps pushing?_"

"Really, are you that dense?" Big words, but the voice was faltering. "I'm damaging your reputation to ensure Pheles can't strengthen his hold on the Order  
through you. Just a precaution. Someone like you doesn't belong in the Order in the first place."

What was Kita doing? This wasn't some spur-of-the-moment thing: he'd known since April. He'd had time to paint wards and plan his retreat.

Why this spot? Far from the most advantageous – a dead end with no possibility of hiding or holding one's ground.

Why taunt when he was afraid of getting beaten up? It made no sense. If he was that afraid of getting torn a new one, all he'd have to do was hide behind  
Akihiro, his brother – especially if the whole Yaonaru family was informed of-

Steps. Heavy steps over tiled floor. Shiro had barely turned his head to identify the newcomer when he was yanked away from Kita and…

Yaonaru Akihiro, speak of the devil: and he landed a punch square in Kita's temple. The teenager leaned heavily onto the wooden dais, groaning pitifully with  
one hand clamping his head.

"Don't you dare touch my brother!"

Shiro had _no_ idea what was going on, except that Akihiro had whirled back around and whacked him hard across the face with the back of his fist. Tiny white  
dots of light crackled in his vision, and in his mouth the taste of salt and metal bled onto his tongue.

"People should know the truth!"

"What the hell are you doing?!" Shiro snapped, blocking the next swing. He tried to hold Akihiro still, but the senior tore the shirtsleeve out of his grip – and  
turned around to ram his knee hard into Kita's side.

"Someone like you doesn't belong in the Order of the True Cross", Akihiro snarled, and lunged all out at him.

And then he understood.

Spanners in the works. Collateral damage. They were going to disable Mephisto's 'tool', and Kita was the sacrifice that would get him sent to the Order's research  
laboratories.

"You piece of _shit_…!"

They wanted him to beat them up? Fine. He was _more than willing _to comply.

It wouldn't make any difference anyway. They were two against one – two members of a respected lineage family against one orphan with a criminal past, and  
there was all the motive in the world to suggest he had attacked them. Guess whose story the Court would believe?

* * *

He heard the sound of steps and someone shouting his name, faintly filtering through the grunts of fighting and the pulse thumping red shadows in his vision.

"_I'm not fucking done with you yet!_"

He felt arms darting in under his own from behind, locking them and pulling him away from Akihiro.

"_I'm not fucking done with you, you shit-head!_"

Shiro threw his arms back over his shoulders, grabbed hold of his captor's clothes, and hurled him forward with-

Him?

Midori sailed through the air with a shocked gasp, but regained her control in a graceful twist that landed her in crouching position on the wall, before gravity  
brought her soundlessly back down on the floor tiles. And the way she looked at him…

Not at him

A stranger.

A stranger who did things humans couldn't do.

Reality flooded back in with brutal awareness and too sharp details. He wasn't Shiro to her anymore. Would never be Shiro to her again. Her wide eyes said it all,  
those golden eyes that used to be filled with sunshine…

He turned away. He'd rather die, right here and now, than see that expression on Midori's face.

Shizuku. Sen. Ryuuji. They all…

"_They all saw…?_"

Yes. They had all seen it. They had all come rushing after Midori, and they had all seen her trying to call him back to his senses. Eyes empty with disbelief, frozen  
where they stood in the shower room foyer.

He would never be Shiro to them again.

And Silence reigned supreme.

_Run_. The impulse had his body moving before it reached his brain. Run. The ice was shattering under his feet, and if he didn't run he would drown in the cold,  
black river. The ship was sinking, and all he could do…

Abandon it.

He elbowed past Sen, out the glass doors, fumbling in his pocket-

"_Hope to hell the lock didn't break._"

-fumbling for the key. The heavy, gilded key that only had one matching brother.

He slammed the door shut and shoved it into the lock, begging, _praying _that it would-

"Shiro!"

The grandiose foyer of Faust Mansion spread in the wrecked doorframe.

"Shi-!"

The door slammed shut behind him… and all was silent.


	58. 110: Ritardando

**A/N: Refs to ch: 101, 107.  
**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

"Good afternoon, bocchan. Would you-?"

"I just wanna be alone."

Shiro dismissed the demon housemaid in stride, thinking only of finding someplace where he could sit down and…

And what? Think? About time he did some of that – way too fucking late, though.

He had already slumped down on his favourite couch in the manga library before he noticed his lip was bleeding. His nose ached, his hands were sore, and he  
would probably have a bruise blooming over-

…he plucked off his glasses as gently as he could: the frame was kinked, but not broken. The following minutes he spent directing all of his attention to bending  
it back into shape. Not thinking about his lip. Not thinking about his eye. Not thinking. Not thinking as long as he could avoid it.

Fuck it all. Just… fuck it all…

Shouldn't have lost it like that. Couldn't_ afford _losing it like that, dammit…

Shouldn't have panicked. Shouldn't have run.

"_They saw me fucking run to Faust Mansion…_" He groaned, putting his glasses back on and letting his hands remain covering his vision.

Good job – bloody good job. Why couldn't he just stop and _think_? Was that too much to ask of a nineteen-year-old, that he would fucking _think _before he acted?

He should go and find them, right now; go back and apologise and explain…

Explain what? That he could throw people and vending machines like sticks, but Mephisto had absolutely nothing to do with that? That he was an irresponsible  
piece of shit who risked their lives and limbs just by being near them? Apologise for things that couldn't be forgiven and get himself another head-butt from  
Shizuku?

Tch, words. The ones you really need never exist.

There were no words to explain this. No words that could explain how sorry he was, how much he regretted what he'd done; no words that could set the wrongs  
right.

That's why he'd panicked.

That's why he'd run.

Like his dad. Abandoning ship when everything was too tangled up to sort out, when there were no words to mend the cracks and no way of repairing what was  
broken; a pathetic excuse for a man who couldn't make-

"How the fuck do I make this right…?!" he snarled, but it came out as nothing more than a strangled groan.

And the Order. Shit, _the Order_.

He sank deeper in the couch, sank and sank into the spiralling hell until his breath was nothing but shallow gasps. They would detain him now, surely. Forget  
about school, forget about friends: he'd be locked up indefinitely, with tubes and tests and syringes to dissect him for information. They wouldn't find any  
explanation, and they'd keep searching, and he'd never be let out, never-

"_I wasn't possessed, they'll only take me if I'm possessed_", he repeated, mouthing the words to himself like a silent prayer.

They could still declare him too volatile to be in school. Forget about becoming an exorcist – perfect marks didn't count for shit if Beaumonde could have a say.  
_  
Someone like you doesn't belong in the Order of the True Cross.  
_  
Fuck – fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck…_! There was no making this right, no returning to how things had been; nothing he could say or do that would change anything;  
nothing that…

Nothing…?

Not quite true.

If he really wanted to make amends, he could. If he really _wanted _to escape a laboratory cell, he could. He could still be in the Order, still become an exorcist…

Kasumi would never forgive him. After all he'd done to her already, this one thing was-

Tch, as if it would matter! As if it would matter if he made another wrong to set the first one right! Shizuku would never allow him near his sister again  
anyway – hell, Kasumi might feel the same once she learnt the truth! How sycophantic wouldn't he look if he did this _now_?! Like he was trying to fucking  
_bribe_ them to forgive him! As if he wasn't doing it for _her_ but for his own _damn _sake!

Was he, then? Was he doing it for her? Was he _truly _doing it for her…?

"_For both of us_", he conceded, not without tasting the bitterness of the confession.

He could have done it before. She hadn't wanted him to, but he could have. If he broke his promise now, it was because he feared for his own skin. Not hers.  
_  
Coward._

* * *

He didn't know how long he sat on that couch. His mind spun haunted circles between hope and despair, honourable destruction or cowardly redemption.

He could make things right: the milestone his thoughts kept returning to, each turn they traced the same, familiar tracks. He could make things right: save his  
own skin, and set right the wrongs he'd made against others. He _could_.

_There's many things people _can_ do, but that doesn't mean they _should_ do 'em._

Could, should - too late for all that. He _would _do it.

Would that change anything?

No. No, it wouldn't. It made things right, but it didn't make them undone.

Still, it was the best he could do. The _only_ thing he could do. There was no salvaging the shipwreck his life had turned into, but he could make sure that he  
was the only one who paid for the mistakes. Be a better man than his dad had been. They might not forgive him… but, this way, at least he could forgive  
himself, even if he abandoned ship.

After all, it's in human nature to wish for miracles when desperate.


	59. 111: Chess: Latvian gambit

**A/N: A Latvian gambit is a move made by Black:**

_"What is required to play the Latvian Gambit with any degree of success is a sharp eye for tactics and a mental attitude of total contempt for whatever theory  
has to say about it."_**  
**  
**Refs to ch: 31, 77, 79, 88, 90, 93, 94, 96-99, 107.**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

It was unclear exactly how Faust Mansion connected with Mephisto's office in the Academy; _why_ was obvious, considering how much he seemed to dislike  
traveling like common humans, but _how_… Well, transition between the two was possible, at least. With the right key and the right… patience. Shiro knew well  
how long office hours lasted, and how long after that point Mephisto could be expected to stay in his office to finish the day's paperwork. By using this knowledge  
in junction with much exploration of the mansion, he arrived in the principal's office when Mephisto was the only one present.

"I'll do it."

Mephisto looked up from his papers with that expression that said he would consider becoming curious, depending on what next came out of the speaker's mouth.

"I'll do it", Shiro repeated in level tones as he strode solemnly past the set of Baroque furniture. "I'll go to Rome and get you your Cardinal."

A lone eyebrow quirked upwards, but that was the sole change on the principal's features.

"If the offer still stands?" he added, coming to a stop before the desk that boasted its weight in solid wood.

"As I recall, you preferred to watch the game from the sidelines?"

"I do, but you don't always get to pick what you prefer", he replied wryly. "Still interested in a single-move checkmate?"

"Always the wrong questions, Shiro", Mephisto drawled, leaving ample room for the smug response that would come… That was, after he had wiped and corked  
his reservoir pen. And laid it into its etui. And put it aside by the chessboard. "The only relevant one being, 'what do you ask in return?'" he inquired smoothly,  
folding his fingers together on the desk.

"I want Kasumi's face returned to what it was."

He didn't want that kind of scrutiny right now. Every second Mephisto spent on measuring him, he expected the old goat to turn the offer down. Or say that it  
wasn't balanced; that somehow seemed to be vital for forming contracts. Equal value. Can't pay for less than you get – and conversely, it appeared demons  
couldn't charge for more than they sold.

"Lovers give each other offerings for three reasons", Mephisto spoke distantly, still holding Shiro contemplatively with his eyes. "As tokens of affection, as pleas  
for forgiveness, or as parting gifts." His head tilted sideways, the way Midori's did when she was trying to make sense of something that she almost-but-not-quite  
grasped. "You aren't asking her to forgive you", he murmured to himself. "You're enamoured with her. And you're saying goodbye." The demon heaved a  
pleasant sigh, bringing with it a sappy smile that Shiro recognised when they watched some particularly cheesy anime. "And they say the days of chivalry are  
past? Truly, a knight the Order will be able to pride itself on. A deal it is."

A deal it was. The desk was soon swept clear of papers, and covered by a large, unmarked sheet of parchment summoned by Mephisto.

"_Parting gift… Yeah, something like that. I'm sorry, Kasumi. Seems I'll be playing chess after all_", he thought grimly, eyes falling on the glossy chessboard. If he  
were useful there, Mephisto would keep him in play. Would ensure that the Order didn't detain him. Really, it was the best option out of several bad.

There was only one piece moved on the board: a black pawn. One piece that would ensure no others had to be… sacri… ficed…?

_we all make sacrifices from time to time_

Kita's voice echoed in the back of his head; overlapped by another voice from long ago, in this very office.

_in chess there is always sacrifices_

Sacrifices were part of the game. Part of the strategy. Part of luring your opponent into the trap. And as Mephisto tugged the fingers of his glove to remove it,  
Shiro traced the pattern of skilful strategy with dead heartbeat.

He couldn't see them. The strings. Humans rarely can see such things: see the strings that connect one thing to another, beneath the surface layers of the  
world. But, even if you can't see them… sometimes… you can see the pattern they weave.

Pinky…  
_  
When he was going to date Kasumi, Mephisto had offered him succubi_

Ring finger…  
_  
When he'd promised to spend the day with Kasumi and Shizuku, he'd almost missed it because of the hangover from celebrating his exam with Mephisto;  
before exam results were officially announced_

Middle finger…  
_  
When he'd taken Kasumi to the cinema, Mephisto had bought up all the tickets_

Forefinger…  
_  
When Kasumi and Shizuku had dropped by for a surprise-visit, Mephisto had been introducing him to the Misses in the beauty pageant_

Thumb…  
_  
Kasumi had forgiven him for the attack, made him promise not to sign any contract… and Kita's grandparents had found out that he had been involved  
in the Deep Keep incident_

And though Shiro couldn't see them, he felt them: soft, soft strings, gently snaring his limbs into submission and binding his tongue with secrets that kept  
others from interfering as the spider slowly wove its web around him.

"You… no…"

Mephisto looked up at him, wearing that same face of naïve ignorance he pulled on the Order during hearings. The face he'd used for pledging innocence with  
the blood of ninety-two orphans on his hands.

No, it couldn't be… it _couldn't_…

"You wanted this…" he whispered, barely audible above the numb disbelief echoing inside him. "You wanted me to- You tried to make me…"  
_  
The right to move is yours alone_ – how _noble _that had sounded. How _magnanimous _of the demon to let his game piece leave the board. How _generous_ to offer  
the illusion of choice when he dangled like a fucking puppet at the end of his strings…!

"You son of a _bitch_…!"

Fuck the games, fuck the rules: Shiro dragged him out of his chair by the cravat, forced him to bend forward and practically bow over the desk to meet him face  
to face. And the demon grinned – fucking _grinned _– at the scorching fury boiling in his veins.

"You're gonna tell me one thing", he snarled through his teeth, "and you're gonna tell me the truth. Did you send the demon that possessed me when I  
attacked Kasumi?"

Because if he did; if he risked her fucking _life _for his plans…

_in chess there is always sacrifices_

…then Shiro would walk up to the Grigori and tell them who their Honorary Knight was, and what he had done. And that would be the end for both of them.

"I have done no such thing", the demon smiled sweetly.

Lies. He'd told lies before, he would do it again. Stone cold, Shiro pierced the green eyes with his own, quietly demanding the truth.

"You wish it were my doing, do you? Would ease your own guilt if it were me, hm?" he suggested agreeably, idly meeting the glares with unwavering confidence.  
"It's such a bad habit you humans have, blaming your faults on demons."

Something snapped, as cold flames once more burned off restraint and set loose a mind capable of anything; next thing Shiro knew, something wet and warm  
was trickling down his fingers. The switchblade was in his hand, with its tip buried in the soft flesh under Mephisto's chin.

"I have many things I could blame you for", he spoke coldly, "and the Vatican would be eager to hear them."

He could go further. No problem at all. In this state of mind, he could do anything. Mephisto was held fast, bowed down, bleeding… And no matter how much  
Shiro was capable of, he could do nothing against the demon that was held fast, bowed down, bleeding… and _smiling_.

"Such spirit~" Heavy eyelids lowered pleasantly, centimetres from Shiro's face. "I thought you would have learnt, from the incident with miss Honda, not to let  
emotion obstruct your judgement, Shiro…?"

Playing. The bastard was still playing with him, _toying _with him…!  
_  
As he had done all along._

Inside Shiro… something broke.

Something he'd never felt until it impaled him on the shards of shattered illusions.

The world teetered before his eyes, suddenly black and white in the garish light of his stupidity. Mephisto had been playing him the whole time; herding him  
towards this moment, this parchment, this contract.

A tool.

One that Kita had willingly handed to the demon, not knowing where the information about the Deep Keep incident came from.

Walk away. That was his first impulse: walk away, and deny Mephisto the tool he wanted. Walk off, slam the door behind him and… And what? Let Mephis- Let  
Samael play him for another round of cat-and-mouse? Let him drag more innocent bystanders into his mad games?

_know your enemy, and you can predict his actions_

He knew Samael: fool or not, he knew how that demon's mind worked. And Samael knew him.

_predict your enemy's actions, and you can lead him wherever you like_

He knew there was only one way of making him stop: Samael knew that, too.

_to the true master, the enemy is but another game piece to be played_

"I'll sign your contract", he hissed, letting go of the cravat with a harsh shove. "And next time you feel like playing _games_, you play with the ones who chose to  
be on the board."

No more sacrifices. No more collateral damage. No more foolish illusions.  
_  
Bastard._

"The mettle of one who commands hellhounds." His tone seemed to say 'good dog' as he seated himself again, producing a cerise handkerchief to wipe blood  
from his throat. "No need to involve others now that all the pieces are assembled, hm?" He offered the handkerchief to Shiro with an easy smile; Shiro ignored  
it, and wiped his knife and fingers on his own shirtsleeve. Unperturbed, the demon tossed the cloth over his shoulder for the wastebasket to catch. "First things  
first~ I'm assuming you want to read the contract and make sure it's to your satisfaction before you sign?"

Not waiting for a reply, he tugged off his other glove and pulled up the tailcoat sleeve a few centimetres. One sharp, purple claw cut into his wrist, and a single  
red drop fell onto the parchment: it scattered, like ink dripped into water, and wove its smoky tendrils out over the surface to inscribe what he promised to do.

Shiro flipped the parchment around unceremoniously. There could be catches hidden in any nook of a strange or non-exclusive phrasing… He sifted the words  
through, turned them over and inside out, but found nothing suspicious. All was in place, nothing noteworthy…

"I want to make an addendum", Shiro declared in monotonous tones. Following the cue of Samael's cocked head, he spoke: "Your part of the deal won't come  
into effect until I'm out of here. Until I leave Japan."

That way, Kasumi wouldn't know he'd broken his promise until he was gone.  
_  
Coward._

That way, she might curse him to hell and forget about him.

"Certainly." With a sigh eerily reminiscent of disembodied voices, the blood seeped another smoky line of kanji into the parchment. "Will that be all…?"

Sounding like a bloody shop assistant over the counter.

Wordlessly, Shiro rolled a sleeve; same as he had been instructed to do one year and four days earlier, in this very room. He poised the tip of his knife over a pale  
blue vein, and blood swirled into words his end of the deal. Just like one year and four days ago.

One year…

He watched Samael hum to himself in an unconcerned fashion as he read through the document in its entirety. No regret. No emotion played over his features,  
not even gloat.

As if one year had meant nothing.

"Well, then." The blood flashed blue, the colour of burning sulphur; and when the light died down, their agreement was branded into the paper. "All set and  
done~" At two rapid claps from Samael's hands, the parchment rolled into a scroll and bound itself together with a pink, polka-dotted ribbon, before it  
disappeared in a burst of pink smoke.

"It's the same as last time, I guess?" Shiro rolled the sleeve back down, not bothering if the fabric stuck in the bleeding cut. "If I break the contract or fail to  
complete it, you'll have my soul."

"No need to look so grim about it: I want you to succeed, Shiro~" He threaded his gloves back on, taking care that the seams all aligned impeccably on the sides  
of his bony fingers. "Nothing is impossible with the right mind and the right means. The mind you have; and the means", he smirked, "I will provide. So!  
Without further ado, I will explain to you how to catch the fox in his own den…"

There was a plan.

Of course.

Hadn't there been, all along…?

* * *

…he wouldn't _admit _that he was amazed, but… Damn. _Damn._

Shiro had pictured a stab in the back, a dagger in the shadows – the kind of manoeuvre Tanzi had tried to pull, but smarter.

In retrospect, he didn't know what he had been thinking. Stealth? From one who dressed in pink silk stockings and billowing opera capes…? Samael's soiled pride  
demanded Revenge, glorious such, and it would march in through the front gate to obtain it – red carpet, spotlight and all.

"There's no way you can kill Tanzi under those circumstances", he murmured, running the plan over in his head in search of weaknesses and question marks.  
"You weren't going to, either, if I remember. So what are you gonna do once you have him?"

He forced himself to look at Samael when he spoke, hoping to see… difference. A change in the way he sat, the way he looked at him; _anything_ that set him  
apart from the Mephisto he had called friend, hoping it would be… easier? Was betrayal ever easy?

"I'm going to offer him a deal", the demon replied.

There was no malice in that statement, no looming shadows or chilling threats; it was simply that. A statement. Nothing more, nothing less.

_puppets and playthings_

He was the same Mephisto, same as he had always been; nothing different and nothing changed, save that Shiro saw him for what he was. What he had been  
all along, behind playful smiles and gaudy clothes. What he had refused to see, despite all the warnings.

_little by little, he will burn you to ashes_

Something stirred inside, as if the calm he'd maintained was that of an ocean sucking in breath before unleashing a tsunami. Something was stirring in the  
ashes, and he did not want to be around Samael when the waves hit.

"That's that, then." With nothing more to say, he turned and walked.

Part of him still stood before the desk. Parts of him clattered to the floor with every step. Bit by bit he fell apart, suffocated by the hollow void opening i his lungs.

But damn if he would let Samael have that last victory.

"One more thing, if you don't mind?"

He did mind – he did mind _a lot..._ but Shiro merely turned his head a fraction, enough to meet the demon's eyes in the periphery of his glasses' frame.

"Why did your parents name you Shiro with the kanji for lion and son?" he inquired in the most flippant, casual, _infuriating_ manner possible.

What the fuck was he playing at? If this was some new damn guessing game that- Tch… just give the bastard what he wanted. Only way to make him stop.

"They lost three foeti before I was born", he responded curtly from the doorway. "'Four' is bad luck – they'd had enough of that, so they named me after a lion  
instead." Much bloody good that had done.

"Ah, good old superstition. I shall make all the necessary preparations for your task, then. Keep an eye on your mail compartment, and have a nice-"

The door slammed shut before the greeting could reach its addressee.

* * *

**A/N:**

_"Love?! Who exactly do you take me for? Demons strive to counteract human attachment to romanticised illusions such as love, goodness me."  
_– Mephisto, AnE ch 44

**Number four** is considered bad luck in both China and Japan, because the pronunciation is similar to that of "death". As a side note to the side note, nobody  
wants to give birth in hospital room number 43, because the number can be literally read as "still birth".

**Sulphur **burns blue, yes. Exact same hue as Satan's flames, too. ;)


	60. 112: Choices: All roads lead to ----

**A/N: Refs to ch: 78, 107.  
**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Each choice shapes the future.

Each choice is shaped by the human who makes it.

Each choice shapes the human who makes it.

* * *

He wasn't sure how he returned to his dorm room. He was vaguely aware that the door had been locked, so Saburota must be out.

Halfway across to his desk and bed, his feet slowed to a halt. What now? What did he usually do…? It all seemed so alien, so far away… He was sure he must  
be doing something during his days. Just couldn't… recall right now. What he usually did. What he was supposed to do now.

The bed wasn't made. Instead of making it – had he been intending to make it? he wasn't sure – he sat down on the edge and… sat. Just sat, unseeing eyes  
roaming the surroundings for reason. For something to tell him what to do now.

For the longest time, he sat. When the buzzing vacuum in his head didn't tell him what to do, he lay down. Closing his eyes… closing his eyes invited the  
intense, irrational hope that it had all been a dream.

That Kita hadn't revealed those things.

That his friends were still friends.

That Mephis-

The darkness burned under his eyelids, burned with liquid flames and sulphur salt. He was so cold, all of a sudden; he gathered the covers over his shivering  
body, feeling nausea rise in his gut as the world came back to him. All well-meant warnings he'd dismissed, all the people that had worried for him, and he'd  
truly _believed _that… that they had been friends…

He'd been so stupid. Too proud and too stupid to see what was really going on.

_Lies._

And he'd believed him. He'd believed that lying, slithering _bastard_, led on like a dog on a fucking leash; had _defended _the asshole in Court, defended him before  
his _friends_, his _real _friends, and now-

The sound of wood smashing hard against wood woke him up. He wasn't even aware he'd gotten out of the bed; much less that he'd hurled his chair into  
Saburota's bookshelf.

But it felt good.

It gushed up again, scalding heat that squeezed the air out of his ribcage; he kicked his school satchel across the room, pencils and notepads scattering like  
dead leaves over the floorboards. The cable flew out of its socket when he hurled the table lamp into the wall; books and papers thudded to the floor as he  
heaved the table over end; staples pitter-pattered silver rain as stationery was smashed out of the shelves by his hand.

It felt so good.

"_Fucking snake!_" The ceramic jar with spare pens shattered against the overturned table. "_Double-crossing smooth-talking shit-brained bloody…!_"

Screw words, they never did any damn good anyway: he lifted the upturned table by its legs and slammed it into the floor.

"_I never left your fucking board!_" Saburota's chair lost its backrest to the wall with a jarring crack. "_I just didn't move the way you fucking wanted!_"

One game piece missing from the table – so damn obvious! One game piece that could ensure no others had to be sacrificed – and had he cared?! Had he  
fucking _cared_ that others would suffer for the choice he made? No, 'cause he'd thought it would be nameless, faceless sacrifices on the other side of the world!  
No need to care about those, right?! Not so difficult to sacrifice people you'll never meet and never know! Quite damn different when they turned out to be his  
own friends! Oh but he was always the idiot, wasn't he? Stupid fucking idiot-Shiro had seen firsthand what Mephisto was capable of at the Futotsuki meeting,  
and _still_ he hadn't had brain enough to get what he meant when he spoke of chess and sacrifices! Thought he was so fucking special, did he?! Thought he had  
a hand with demons and could be friends with them?!

**_"But you do, puppet-boy"_**, hissed a voice like susurrus scarab wings.

Water, cool and soft, licked soothingly around his calves. At the black horizon, a bristling sun peeked over the rim. There were frogs on the muddy banks,  
thrumming an unsteady rhythm for the crickets' solo serenade. Grains of rice rustled shyly in their sheaths, poking his legs as they swayed together in drunken  
laughter; two roaring lunatics without a care in the world. The future was theirs, full of twinkling promises as the bony ribcage trembled joyously under his  
hands, so impossibly warm in the chilly dawn. He was always warm, as if the sun breathed in his veins; always warm, always laughing, always-

**_"The best friend you ever had?"_**

Lies. Lies that were snatched away, torn out of his chest with roots of barbed wire twined around his ribs.

**_"Kekekeke awww, how _****sweet****_~"_** the demon cooed, rummaging around in his reeling mind for more. **_"So many sweet memories turned bitter~"_**

Humanity was packing up for the night, under the red glow of the market lanterns strung over the square. The plastic chairs were just as ugly, the table just  
as rickety under the bowls of noodle soup, Mephisto's face just as hilarious when he spat out the broth; and he grinned, he _beamed_, and Shiro felt the same  
warmth spread in his remembered body_. _He looked so happy… they had been so happy…

**_"No wonder, when his plans were going so well~"_**

The warmth grew acid hooks, and shredded his flesh as truth robbed him of the illusion once more. Shiro felt the floor hit his knees somewhere outside the  
darkness, _tried _to home in on that sensation; tried to ignore the peaceful oblivion that beckoned for his consciousness.

Blinding light, sizzling in the air as it etched shadows into his retina. The laughter bubbled up within (_no, it was a lie, it was just a memory; it wasn't real, none  
of it was real_) and out of his mouth, and the feeling of weightless happiness flooded him as fireworks shot up over their ridiculous shoujo manga date on Hyakki  
Yagyou. He could feel the vague burn of Devil's Tongue in his mouth, the lone geta that dangled on his foot; the smile tugging his lips when Mephisto called  
him Cinderella. (_no, please, don't…!_)

**_"The best birthday of your life, was it~? Of course it was." _**Oh god, just let it stop – the lies, the shame, just make it _stop_! Forget him, forget it all,  
sink into the sweet embrace of darkness. **_"Forget? No no no: you wanted to _**remember~**_"_**

Light headache churned behind his eyes, but his feet wouldn't stop. Not this day. Gravel scuttled off in flurries of dry dust as he crossed the courtyard, sprayed  
temporarily by the bliss drops from the fountain. (_no… please, _please_…!_) And he fingered the dice in his pocket, so unsure of how to hand them over; so  
nervous that Mephisto wouldn't approve, wouldn't accept them, wouldn't recognise their bond as friendship. (_it wasn't real, he knew it wasn't, and still it- no,  
god, _please_…!_)

Run, hide, curl up, _anything _but-

_"If you're gonna have something to remember me by…"_

Lies…

**_"He won't remember you~"_** it giggled madly, feasting in delight on shame and sharp betrayal. **_"He had thousands of puppets before you; do you  
think he cared about them? Even that body he wears"_**, it cooed intimately from the deepening shadows, **_"is just a puppet. He took everything  
from him: body, soul, _**love**_… and he made you trace those footsteps flawlessly~"_**

He didn't care if it was truth or lie. He didn't care… didn't care about anything anymore…

Just let oblivion in… and drown in darkness…

_It's in desperate situations that an exorcist has ta show 'is true strength. If 'e fails ta do that, he'll be defeated: not through magic, not through claws, but  
through 'is own heart._

Why now…? Why now, when he'd decided to surrender, did those words have to drift into mind…? He had already been defeated, already fallen for the bait,  
already-

"_I was gonna… make things right…_"

No. No, he _would _make things right. He owed her that. Even if it was the _single _good thing he could do, he would do it. He would bring Kasumi's smile back.

"_I'm gonna make things right._"

So thin, the beam of light that thought offered; a sigh in a smothering maelstrom of darkness. And still, one ray of light is all it takes.

Make things right. Give her back that smile he loved. See to it that no others had to play a game they didn't choose.

One single guiding star is enough to navigate the darkest of nights, for it's in the depths of despair that humans find their true strength.

* * *

Beaten down and crumpled up, he woke; gathered his mind, murmured the verses that would expel the demon. It left him with a disembodied shriek, left  
him alone in the shards and shreds of his existence. Broken furniture, broken jars, broken... and alone. Alone, because Samael wanted it so. Easier to  
manoeuvre him that way. Easier to-

_It's such a bad habit you humans have, blaming your faults on demons._

…he'd chosen Samael, that fateful day in Deep Keep. He'd chosen to be friends with a demon, against all warnings. He'd chosen to listen to a demon's  
words, knowing full well that he shouldn't.

Who was to blame, in the end…?

"_Fucking idiot…_" Swallow the tears. Swallow the sobs. Swallow past aching throats and twisting daggers, back into the prison in his chest. Couldn't afford slipping  
up. It felt good, surrendering care and control to emotion, but he couldn't afford that. "_If I hadn't been such a fucking idiot…_"

Couldn't afford to let things out, couldn't afford to let them in.

Couldn't afford to cry.

* * *

Each choice shapes the future.

Each choice is shaped by the human who makes it.

Each choice shapes the human who makes it.

…when there is a choice to make.

There are always different paths to walk: but no matter the branching roads choice paves, no matter the mirage forks the future mocks with, one may find  
that they all, in the end, converge at one single destination.

* * *

**A/N:**

**There's many reasons** I wanted to send Shiro off to Rome as an exchange student: none of them relating to canon. x') I have one thing, though – one _very  
_vague thing – that I could claim suggests that Shiro did spend time abroad in canon. Namely, he doesn't beckon people to come closer the way the Japanese do.

Recall that cute scene where Shiro ties Rin's tie? He beckons him closer the Western way: palm up and wagging his fingers towards himself. In Japan, the  
normal way of beckoning someone to come near/follow is the one we'd usually interpret as "good bye" or "stay put": palm down, and wagging with straight  
fingers.

That's probably the weirdest bloody connection one can make ("A-hah, he uses Western gestures – he must have been in Rome!"), but, well, I needed him in  
Rome anyway.

**YOU ITALIANS:** Yes, that means you. I know you're reading. =w= And now I'm asking you for help. There's very little left of my knowledge of Italian, so  
what I'm looking for is frankly someone who is fluent in the language. It's not as scary as it may sound. ^_^ I just need someone who's able and willing to  
translate snippets for me here and there, the way I've asked _Zeitdieb_ to do with German.

**Dear Dare mo  
**1. Who says there's only one reason~? ;P  
2. Ooh, quite observant, quite observant! 0w0 More than "quite", actually – I doubted anyone would make that connection. Technically, TEotB is set in the  
time between _Faust _and AnE; and the scene around the contract is, indeed, meant to be reminiscent of the scene where Faust realises what he's done to  
Gretchen. The line "It's such a bad habit you humans have, blaming your faults on demons" is a discrete shout-out to the fact that Mephisto has been  
"unjustly" blamed before, when he defended himself with "Who was it that plunged her into ruin? I, or thou?"  
3. The first-ever crossover between _AnE_ and _Totally Spies_ just flashed through my brain. x'D No, there won't be any spy stuff (sadly). I will probably make  
references to it, though: I know just the character (in Rome) who would make such a comment. ;)  
ch 108: Heheeeh… As Mephisto says: "Postponing the excitement for later is simply for your own good." ;) His plans will unfold in time.

**Dear EiseiNoMuzai2  
**Yeah, you caught me. x) I do like to work deception in plain sight, and see how well I can manipulate my readers. It's the only trait I have in common with  
Mephisto, but I'm just as addicted to it as he is. x'P Pardon your author: some temptations I simply can't resist…

And_ thank you _– really, thank you. Being mentioned in the company of Rothfuss is… ah, words. Sometimes, the ones you need truly don't exist. ^_^'


	61. 113: names

**A/N: I'd like to dedicate this chapter to my dear friend ****_Gecko_****: **you're the opium that gets my muse high and happy, and the magic drops that give my  
brain creative diarrhoea. xD It's never easy to write Mephisto... so pardon if I miss the mark a bit here. x/

**Refs to: 73, 79, 91, 107.**

**I do not own or profit from anything Kazue Kato has created.**  
**I don't own anything Johann Wolfgang von Göthe wrote either.**  
**No, I have no claims on** **_Dogma _****for that matter – or ****_Zeitdieb_****'s flirt with it (it seems impossible for me not to make references to you all the  
time x'D).  
I don't own anything Ryohgo Narita has made.  
And lastly, I don't own anything created by the marvellous Neil Gaiman or Sir Terry Pratchett.**

* * *

_Lust…_

The siren song in every human heart, sworn enemy of Love, that would blind with pleasure bliss its host to reason and restraint.

_Greed…_

Daughter of Hunger and sister of Yearning, whose busy hands would nurture selfish want in the carcass of Compassion, and feed the flame of craving till its  
host is naught but gleaming coals.

_Knowledge…?_

The cleverest of the three, disguised as Virtue and held in reverence supreme. It claimed such epithets as Power, as Freedom, as Treasure – truly, Knowledge  
was king amongst deceivers. Lack it, and ignorance would chain you like a mule to others' whims and wants; hoard it, and awareness would consume your  
mind with empty Hope and crippled Faith.

Indeed, was not mankind's hunger for Knowledge her first and greatest Sin…?

* * *

Greed and Lust the Order drilled its followers to deny, but Knowledge…? Knowledge they encouraged, the darling little exorcists, and Knowledge he provided;  
a gourmand's selection of the finest pieces, of course. After all, it is the amount of a serpent's venom that determines whether it will be potion or poison,  
boon or bane.

Knowledge is a useful tool, in capable hands – hands now holding a glass of sparkling pink champagne in the office.

Ah, nights in Assiah; what a miracle they were. Infinity seemed so near, bridged by light from distant worlds – so near it shrouded itself shyly in pristine gauze  
of clouds to escape earth's prying eyes.

Gehenna was no more than a dream half forgotten, those nights. Noxious gales of ash and bone-dust hissing at a sky locked in perpetual, crimson dusk… No  
stars. No moon. No sun.

A worthless place to call home.

Alas, experience is always useful, if only to establish by comparison that one thing is preferable to another. Blissfully short of such, humans had no idea how  
blessed they were to have such a sky. They would complain that the city lights were too bright; that the stars paled and drowned in the electric hum that  
draped pearl necklaces over busy streets. Why, they were right. And it brought a vicious smile to his lips. Such a perfect metaphor, unbeknownst to its creators:  
humans, so bold, so shameless in their ambitions – outshining heaven herself!

So bold, so easily manipulated in their over-confidence.

To humans, then! He raised the glass bowl on its slender stalk: a toast to the evening sky, to humans, and to the spectacular performance they had put on this  
opening night. Every scene he'd watched from a front-row seat, breath baited and tongue held, as pathos and logos clashed ferociously on stage. Each line of his  
ad lib script had leapt flawlessly from the actors' lips, each word a contributing fugue in his symphony of destruction; stringent chords of betrayal torn from love  
and trust in the pilgrim poet's heart; the curdling lied of irony coaxed from a crusader led astray by good intentions; and the deafening crescendo vested in the  
silence of a glance that says it all – _ah~_ What a show, what a show.

And the lead actor himself…?

"_Superb_", he purred, letting the sparkly tingle of alcohol pleasure his taste buds.

'tis ever the curse of the refined, to find entertainment worthy of one's attention. Tempting mortals into damnation was hardly what one could call sport; it  
was a chore, and one that had only become drearier as eternity wore on. But humans were so _creative_… and after many centuries, he'd begun to test just  
how creative they were. Rather than lead them straight into Perdition, he led them on merry detours with games and wagers of his choosing. Oh, the rewards  
had been bountiful~ The sophistication of his schemes evolved with his increasing knowledge of human nature and its mechanisms, evolved to span  
generations, societies, nations – _centuries_.

Truly, Knowledge was a useful tool.

Demons' appetite knows no sating, the saying goes. Like the flames of Hell made sentient, they seek out pleasure wherever they can find it, licking the bones  
of Assiah until there is nothing left to devour. Quite the striking allegory, that – sadly, the poet in question had turned out to be rather bland in taste when his  
time on earth was past.

Indeed, he'd found his appetite for scheming to be insatiable once whet: a discovery that was neither surprising nor particularly bothering. Come now – what  
sin is there in gluttony, when Assiah's fruits grow endlessly abundant? No, he'd gorged himself on them, royally; had made gambles with himself, seeing how  
many puppets he could control at a given time, how complex plays he could make them enact – in all likelihood, 'twas the sole addiction of his that could rival  
that of sugar.

And then… the Order of the True Cross: his Mona Lisa, his Angkor Wat, his pièce de résistance. Secret nooks behind the scenes had been his dwelling for  
millennia, and all the while he'd felt the spotlight yearn for him to take the stage. He'd waited, plotted, planned… and once he made his entrance, it had been  
_glorious_. The foundations of Assiah shook that day, when the unthinkable turned undeniable, and a son of Satan was knighted before St. Peter's grave. What a  
show, what a show – and the _thrill_…! To be surrounded by exorcists that would have his head – they wished! – if his schemes were revealed; bowing before  
Pope after Pope, giddy with the knowledge that if his intentions and identity were known…

The greater the challenge, the sweeter the taste of success.

He had not hesitated to take on the greatest challenge of them all, when dear Chance presented him the opportunity. Deceiving his father had raised the stakes  
to the starry sky and beyond: one move wrong, and Lord Satan would grow suspicious. One move wrong…

The curse of the refined: to find entertainment worthy of one's attention.

Shiro was the same. The hunt for higher peaks, greater challenges, stronger thrills: that boy had all the qualities of one who paves himself a path to an early  
grave. Not without assistance, of course. For an unrepentant addict whose taste buds had made the purest opiate acquaintance, nothing else would suffice:  
and he was more than willing to supply. All of Assiah's forbidden fruits were his to dispose. All the kicks a young soul could ever wish for. All the skill of millennia  
for pulling the strings of Greed and Lust and need for Knowledge.

And when the snare had tightened around the young lion's neck…

"_Superb~_"

Humans like to ascribe themselves a certain degree of uniqueness; some defining particularity that would set their individual apart from the rest of their kin.  
Discrepancies he wouldn't deny, but at the core – at the _heart _– the essentials were the same. Man and woman, high and low: there is no difference between  
them, once they are broken and ready to sell the one possession they truly own.

Some would sign in wordless defeat, others in unarticulated rage. Some would weep regret; some would heave up the cackle of a shattered mind. Helplessness,  
they all had in common. Helplessness as only granted by the Knowledge that all doors were closed, and the sole possibility of escape was to bow down and beg  
for a key.

It takes a certain kind of man, to don the iron collar of submission and make it look like an act of defiance. To wear the mark of thraldom as though it were a  
crown, and take his leave with back straight and head high. Unyielding. Unbending.

"_How long, I wonder?_" The first blow must be hardest, to shatter resistance: the rest is detail work, to hammer down and tear a man to pieces before rebuilding  
him anew. "_How long before you beg me to stop, little lion of mine~?_"

That delicious mix of rage and sharp betrayal on his face, and so _masterfully _contained by cold intelligence – truly, a show that merited a toast.

…so why did satisfaction fail to seduce his senses? Why didn't the sweet ambrosia of success intoxicate his wine? Why wasn't he giggling, bouncing, laughing…?

Soundlessly, the glass returned to the table; a towering titan beside the chessboard and its squabbling population.

Knowledge was a useful tool, yes. But not to forget, Knowledge was the greatest amongst deceivers.

He was hardly a stranger to deception: and like one craftsman unto another, one used to pulling its supple strings will know when they are pulled on him. The  
truly aggravating thing in being deceived by Knowledge, however, is that you are deceived by yourself. By your own mind, and what it knows or doesn't  
know – or _believes _that it knows.

"_I trapped you._" His pensive gaze addressed the black pawn that stood one step ahead of its kinsmen. "_Flawlessly._" Green eyes narrowed at the silent ebony  
piece. "_And yet this irksome feeling that you aren't entirely mine…?_"

_Shiro_

Countless men throughout history had been named after lions, with hopes of gaining their fearlessness and strength; laughable fancies, steeped in superstition  
and echoes of arcane knowledge. Human names held no such power to decide a bearer's nature. Human names were arbitrary things, no more meaningful than  
the buzz of a mosquito. Still…

_Shiro_

White. Lion son.

Normally, he would shrug it off as coincidence… but Shiro was capable of things beyond human limitations.

Shiro was born perfectly healthy to a couple that seemed unable to produce healthy offspring.

Shiro was _unique_.

Coincidence…? Coincidence was a human word, shaped by human minds that lacked the faculties to perceive coherence in chaos; lacked the ability to see how  
Choice spread ripples across the river of time, and the complex patterns of interference it gave rise to.

For millennia, he'd seen time unfold, seen paths and possibilities birth, fork, twist, and end: seen how one thing connected to another, miles and ages apart.  
There was no such thing as Fate. There was no such thing as Coincidence. Not for one who saw the causal strings that wove the history of Creation, and  
played on them with Paganinian expertise.

There were only two others, beside him, who possessed that kind of perception. Two other pairs of hands at work behind the curtain, with the skill to coax  
their music of choice from those strings.

Equilibrium. The frail fulcrum supporting Creation. It was a common misconception, ludicrous as it was, that equilibrium necessitated homeostasis. Not  
so – the opposite, in fact. The essence of Creation was change, in a carefully controlled succession of destruction and recreation. Like little whirlpools in the  
river of time, countless small cycles repeated that carried Creation onwards: spring followed winter, day followed night, death followed birth. Unbroken cycles  
of constant change, each a part of the complex equilibrium that kept the world afloat. For each and every thing, a counterpart to balance on the opposite  
side of the scales.

For life, there must be death.

For light, there must be darkness.

For Devil, there must be…

He closed his eyes, called upon his powers to stretch his consciousness past the borders of materia and ether, and reached for the fulcrum. The centre of Creation.

* * *

What lies at the centre of Creation itself…? Why, the cradle of eternity, hovering above the dome of the sky, where all that is and will be has become the seeding  
soil of dreams and memories unborn. Like the nave in a revolving wheel, the centre of Creation is still. The flow of time is different there: a difference so  
unfathomably great that it had, long ago, resulted in the nave being so out of phase with the rest that it had become a separate dimension.

It filled him with a rather disoriented feeling, going there. It was the future, he knew that with every particle of his essence; and yet it was the past. And  
simultaneously, it was further teasing his perception by feeling as though it were not so much _in_ the river of time as sitting on the banks beside it, fishing. It  
was a place where the basis for his powers was dislocated, unrecognisable – it was, he assumed, the closest that he with his regenerative abilities would come  
to the sensation of missing a limb.

He didn't go to the _exact_ centre – the thought had its appeal, certainly, but that fragrant garden hid behind a most unpleasant guardian with an even more  
unpleasant sword. Immortality in all its glory; he was not about to test its limits against a blade of smokeless fire.

…but devils will be devils.

"Greetings, my good sir~" He presented the guard his most _sincere _bow; offering his bared neck in doing so. "I assume I am expected?"

His smile met with… why, nothing, really. The tall guard didn't move a muscle; didn't even deign him a glance.

"Haah, what a way to greet a visitor." He heaved an animated sigh before measuring the sentry – Uriel, was it? – head to toe with his eyes. Guards were  
suitably picked to look imposing, and this one in particular was the archetype – quite literally – of all guards. Huge. Rigid. Grave.

He knew how to deal with that kind.

"Your predecessor was more of the conversational type", he struck up in glib, chatty tone. "Never did meet him in person, but, you know – word goes around.  
He didn't seem to consider demons all that bad", he smiled amiably, making sure that it was wide enough for his fangs to show. "Ever thought of installing a  
door bell? Or a knocker, at least – I know you're not too keen on modern stuff. Just thinking, since we seem to have encountered some difficulty in  
communication and I really do need to get in touch with your boss. The sooner the better – I'm a busy man, you know?" Oh, was that a twitch of annoyance  
in his left eye~? "The name is Samael – you may have heard of me?" he continued cordially, touching his fingers to the brim of his hat.

"We are aware who you are."

Unmistakable voice, unmistakable-

"_A suit… over a hoodie… and it's _brown_…_" It is no secret that fashion was invented in Hell, but was that _really_ reason enough for angels to show such utter  
disregard for it? "Often heard, seldom seen – a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Metatron." Just focus on his face, nothing else – good lord, and he was  
meant to represent God before mankind dressed like _that_? "I admire your zeal, I do: relating over and over a message that each time fails to leave a lasting  
impression on human perception must require patience beyond belief. That said", he smiled politely at the dark-haired newcomer on the other side of the  
gates, "I would like a word with the Lord in person, if you would be so kind and tell her holiness I'm here?"

"The Lord is too busy with Creation to grant an audience", answered Metatron in his deep, resonant voice; the kind of voice that didn't need him to spell out  
_to a demon _for it to echo in the tight-lipped silence that followed.

"Too busy to grant an audience, but never too busy to see an old friend", he ensured congenially. "Be a dear and ask her, will you? Time is no problem for  
either of us, I'm sure."

The dark-haired angel seemed about to reply that he was no "dear" to the likes of him, but was cut short when the gold gates of Eden swung inwards and  
very nearly knocked him down.

"Samael!"

Ah, the _true voice_: like sunbeams riding on a warm breeze, washing over his face. All light seemed to billow for an instant, heaving itself up in rejoice like a  
mellifluous flower bursting into bloom with all the fragrances of Paradise.

…verdammte Allergien. Discreetly, he produced a handkerchief from his sleeve and muted a sneeze in it. Meanwhile, Uriel responded by falling down on one  
knee, flaming sword-tip in the soil and hands clasped around the hilt. Bowing his head in reverence, like a good dog, the gate guard murmured the Name of  
the Ancient One as she strode out through the gates.

"Your presence honours me, your holiness." Handkerchief magically gone, he removed his hat with a flourish and bowed, scraping his right boot as in days of  
yore.

"Yes, yes, never mind that: look what I've made!"

Several rather well known literary works have made an effort to depict God as a being of great majesty; an omnipotent and omniscient entity that should be  
approached with a suitable amount of awe.

The authors of these books have never met God; nor have they had her stick her latest clay sculpture quite literally in their faces.

"Charming, your holiness." He reared himself back up, looming high over the beaming happy brunette who sported mud stains on her face and overalls, and  
braided hair that refused to stay braided. Indeed, the authors of humanity's great scriptures have never met God. "Another splicing experiment, like the  
mantis prawn?"

"No, I'm done with splicing: I was just thinking of the introduced species problem in New Zealand. The kiwi isn't equipped for land predators – but! If it evolves  
like this, with feathers forming into spines like the echidnas', it would have all the protection it needs! No, wait: there's more~ It could go like _this_, too. Here,  
hold this for a moment", Uriel almost dropped his sword as he juggled to free one hand and hold the clay bird without compromising the delicate quills, "and  
look: the feathers are already two-branched, so if they evolve to fuse and thicken, they could use the same solution as the pangolin! Isn't that just wonderful?"  
she chirped, holding forth a clay design reminiscent of a gigantic spruce cone with beak and legs.

Ah, yes: there is a reason it was decided that Metatron would handle communication with mankind.

"Most wonderful, your holiness", he agreed. "Your ingenuity in these matters never fails to astound me – speaking of which, I came to inquire about a certain  
specimen in its current position in time."

"The Mongolian death worm? It _does _exist, you know." God pointed the spruce cone kiwi at him, with her other muddy hand resting affirmatively on her hip.  
"It just won't be discovered until mankind finds a way to mimic electrolocation in sand – but when they do find it, it will be a _huge _leap forward in medical  
technology, since its bile has properties that can trigger new formation of neurons in the mammalian brain."

"My Lord", Metatron calmly spoke up, in an attempt to do his job, "Samael came to demand an audience."

"Demand? Such forceful phrasing: the King of Time is but a loyal servant, your holiness." He bowed anew, right hand over his heart. "'tis courteous, in so great  
a lord, to speak so kindly with a devil – and speak I wish, if your holiness does not mind? Can I offer you some tea?"

A table for two materialized as his mind imagined it; and in the same manner, the clay-stained overalls were replaced with perceptions more pleasant to the eye.

It's a special place, the dimension where time has been suspended in the future since the dawn of Creation. It's a place where whispers of Names forgotten  
still linger, like motes of dust saturating air, earth, water, and every being living therein. It's a place where Creation is still malleable, to those who speak its  
mother tongue.

"Loyalty may not be one of your hallmarks, Samael, but let it never be said that you aren't a gentleman", she tittered. "I can take a tea break. Fufufu and I  
see what _your_ mind has been busy with." Familiar amusement tinged her voice as she examined the satin evening gloves his mind had clad her in, and the  
halter neck dress that framed her curves in flattering red.

Indeed, the kind of woman he would be very 'busy' with, had she had physical form: the kind of woman apparently neither Metatron nor Uriel could even  
look at. Really, angels – too prudish to appreciate the beauty of their Lord's work.

"My mind was busy, of a fashion. And while on the subject, it seems to me your holiness has been spying on my dealings with a certain young exorcist student?"  
he inquired pleasantly, pulling the chair out for her and willing into existence cups, saucers, doilies, and a charming little floral-patterned English teapot. Some  
biscuits, too, of course; and fresh, warm scones with cream cheese and five kinds of jam.

"Spying is what _you_ do, dear: I _observe_." She sent a smile past her shoulder as she seated herself. "It's great entertainment, though, that odd connection of  
yours; I think I enjoy your bantering nearly as much as you do. Or did."

It never changed, that smile, despite what form his mind or hers wove around it.

God has no shape, of course. God is the ethereal eidolon of hope in every human heart: 'twas factual long before Nietzsche spoke it, that Truth takes on a  
different shape in every pair of eyes.

"By past tense, I assume you are implying that he won't want to banter with me after our last chat?" he inquired effortlessly, seating himself across from her.  
Rococo chairs – furniture simply wasn't made that way anymore. Made with the love and skill accumulated by generations of carpenters, and stylish to boot.

"You were very cruel to him", she observed, calmly cutting scones for both of them.

"Carrot and stick to break the stallion, your holiness. Or should I say 'break the lion'?" he led on casually as he draped one leg over the other, tugging his gloves  
off to make his scone.

"Hmm, and here I thought it was Satan's second youngest who enjoyed breaking his toys?"

"'Breaking' allows for a wide range of interpretation, your holiness." Hmm, strawberry jam, or cloudberry…? "Not to worry, I won't break him beyond repair: I'm  
aware it's precious goods I'm handling. He has unique potential, that young man; uncharted, but unique. For that reason I aim to add him to my stable, before  
the same idea puts down roots in someone else's mind." She would pick up on the hint, he was sure. After all, they had been exchanging jibes and blows for a  
very, _very _long time.

"Oh my, who would dare to compete with the King of Time …?"

Yes, she knew – and it delighted her that he knew as well. Yet another thing the Vatican would never see the humour in: god and devil think alike, although  
they use their wits for different ends.

"A white lion", he said with feathery pleasantness, coming clear with his intentions. "And a descendant of the exiles." A quick glance, to see her knowing smile  
mirror his own, as he laid the knife to the side and reached for the cream cheese. "Not very subtle, your holiness."

"Talking big, are we?" She winked, taking a bite out of her strawberry jam scone. "It must have been subtle enough if it took you over a year to grow suspicious,  
Samael", she spoke through the food, eliciting a reflexive impulse in him to admonish her for poor table manners.

Truly – six younger brothers and all that does to you…

"For the longest time I held Lady Chance accountable, but the coincidence was simply too striking not to have been engineered; likely by someone with a  
penchant for symbolism."

"Symbols are the language of eternity", she said serenely. As if it had always been there, a tiny jar of minced onion had joined the set of jam bowls. "Mmh, I  
would love to taste this for real some day…" she munched out with a blissful sigh. "Y'know, when humans first started taming the elements, I could never have  
guessed how well they would make use of them. Cooking is just an amazing thing."

God is an artist, and one who enjoys experimenting. Strawberry jam and onion on scones was one of the less spectacular ventures into the possibilities Assiah  
offered; the Great Flood was one of the more… drastic. To be fair, it had been that or total erasure, and he was not one to complain about her choice in that  
matter.

…fine, he had complained. A lot. That had been the first time he heard God laugh, now that he thought back on it; and learnt the other reason Metatron was  
charged with speaking on behalf of God. The event had left him partially deaf for a decade to follow – but she had, on the other hand, never thrown another  
cataclysm. Nor was she likely to do so. Like his father, God was deeply enamoured with Assiah; like his father, she was incapable of interacting with it directly.

Of course, for a divine being of infinite power, such restrictions were minor details. If even that. Satan had found ways to carry out his will in Assiah, through  
slaves that could possess matter without complications; and God…

"The language of eternity comes part and parcel with eternal interpretations, your holiness", he stated whilst wiping off the jam knife on the edge of his own  
scone. "And though my reading skills are first-rate, I fail to see what need there would be for someone like him in this time and place."

Ah, plum jam. The English may lack every trait of civilization in regards to cuisine, but their afternoon tea was… a piece of art. Even Japan, with all her lovely  
customs, couldn't quite match the ambience of floral-patterned bone china, and biscuits stacked high on those adorable tiered cake stands.

"Ineffable plans, you know?" God smiled and licked jam from her finger. "Although I wouldn't say there was one at all for him. He is… another wild card", she  
said with an emphasis that indicated he ought to understand the joke. He didn't, but that was no reason to put his bemusement on display. "His mother prayed  
every day of her pregnancy for that child to live, so…" She ate the last bite, and dusted crumbs off her hands. "I let him live. I'm sure he will prove to be  
important somehow."

"I'm sure he will." There were plans. Ineffable – perhaps even embryonic – but he had discerned strings attached to Shiro that weren't his. And certainly not  
his father's. And God… enjoyed experimenting. "Are you going to tell me to keep my hands off your game piece, your holiness?" he asked politely, carefully  
avoiding getting crumbs in his beard when he dined.

"I will tell you neither: you have your plots and schemes, I have mine~" Oh, there were plans. And she took great delight in not sharing them. "Fujimoto Shiro  
isn't subject to monopoly of any kind, so go ahead and play. The question is", she teased, index finger raised to poke the question in mid-air, "will your devious  
machinations now include me~?"

"Such words, your holiness: how could a mere demon ever connive to play Thee?"

"A mere demon wouldn't even speak to me; let alone picture me in this form." She leaned forward, slowly, and slipped the pink handkerchief out of his chest  
pocket with an impish smile. "And yet you claim that's all you are, Samael. Tsk tsk~"

There was absolutely no need for her to wipe her lips with his handkerchief in that manner, except to make him regret that he chose to imagine her in that  
damnably attractive dress.

"I think that form rather suits your deportment towards a demon of my standing, your holiness", he returned pleasantly.

"Fufufufu always my favourite scamp among spirits…!" she tittered; and there was something about _God _tittering that never failed to pull his own lips into a  
smile. Hmm, yes, and Metatron quietly talking sense into a frothing Uriel made quite a nice addition to the picture, too. "A waggish knave, wasn't that what I  
called you? Still applies", she smiled. "But, as for the young lion in question…" The look she sported was one that ecclesiastics worldwide would be greatly  
surprised to find on their Lord's face. Indeed, god and devil think alike. "What do you say we bet on whose game piece he will be, as we did before?"

A bet…?

A bait, more like.

"Your holiness' charming mien betrays a hint of mockery, I believe…? Just so that it's said; there is nothing to bet on if the outcome is already known."

"Known?" she laughed; not loud, no, but enough to make the china clatter as though an earthquake had reached them all the way from the physical realm.  
"Oh you! We're both apt at making maps and paving paths, but the only thing we _know _is that time and ineffable plans are no match for the capriciousness  
of a human heart. I was merely wondering", she smiled, adding some freshly created pickled herring to her cloudberry jam scone, "if you were willing to take  
the risk and gamble with me again?"

"Risk? Your holiness, I shouldn't need remind you: our last bet I won fair and square", he pointed out, dabbing crumbs from his lips with a white linen napkin.

"And yet I wonder if you didn't lose more than you won?" she said with a gleam in her eye, as if once again pulling a joke that passed him completely by;  
now, however, she was aware that he didn't follow.

"Lose?" he snorted. Losing was not a habit of his, and he had most certainly not lost that bet. "My victory was complete: my prize a soul expertly seasoned,  
and a body to call my own."

…and the statement only made her lips stretch in the manner Shiro had so accurately called "smugging" someone.

"How is your research into artificial life creation going~?"

God was an omniscient being, yes. Were he to name any flaw in her, it would be precisely that.

"With all due respect to our discrepancies: is it really prim and proper for your holiness to take such delight in others' failures?"

"Failure? Dear Samael, I regard that as your greatest achievement yet! It's rare, for a _mere demon_, to make such… _efforts_… for a human being~"

…her omniscience, and her infuriating way of using him to practice marksmanship with the knowledge it granted.

"Do refrain from such insinuations, your holiness; they spoil my appetite. 'tis only natural, to wish to keep one's favourite toys in play a while longer."

"M-hm: if you say so, Sammy~" Who ever said that God is just? God is a gloating elder sibling – with terrible table manners and no sense of proper  
dress – who yanks one's tail _because she can_. "I shouldn't need remind you", she echoed his words with a _detestable _smile, "time brings change, even  
to you." She bopped his nose lovingly, as if he were but a little child that had yet to grow his horns. "_Especially _to you. If I bet that you can't corrupt  
Fujimoto Shiro's soul: will you bet against me~?"

The irony. The _humiliation. _The masterful, _infuriating_ humiliation…!

"_So, I baited him, and he was the bait I swallowed without even thinking._" Disgraceful – to be so utterly played for a fool…! "_What's your plan, then?_" he  
growled inwardly, trying to read the pleased poker face before him. "_What would be your gain if I sought to further snare Fujimoto Shiro?_" Tch, no use.  
With all of Creation for game board, it's a fool's pastime to guess what the purpose of one pawn is.

Of course, he let none of his irritation show. He was no uncouth lout who let impulse obstruct reason. He was a prince, a king, and a master schemer: no  
God or Devil would ever play him if he could have a say in the matter.

"It pains me to say it, but I am far too busy with my own plots and schemes to add another game to my agenda", he excused with impeccable courtesy.  
"Even ones as pleasant as those we share from time to time, your holiness."

"Always 'busy', hm~?"

"Always", he returned with a flirtatious smirk as he rose from his seat.

"It's been a pleasure speaking with you, Samael", she smiled, offering him the handkerchief back.

He accepted the pink cloth, and her fingers with it – and touched his lips gently to the back of her hand.

"Pleasuring your holiness in every way I can~"

"Fufufufu you'd better leave now, or Uriel will have your head on the highest spike of the Pearly Gates."

* * *

So, that's how it was…

He opened his eyes, finding that his body wore the same grin he'd worn when his astral form bade Uriel and Metatron farewell. It lasted a regrettably short  
time, however. Knowledge is a useful tool… but can shift hands all too suddenly.

"I can almost hear you laughing, you know", he told the pawn reproachfully. "You'd say it serves me right, no? That I deserve to know what it's like to be a  
pawn in another's game?"

Tch, the silence only served to make it easier for his mind to fill in what Shiro would have retorted. The little hotspur…

"Snrrkukukuku…! Indeed, who are we to poke fun of mortals and their desires, hm~?" He nudged the pawn with a claw, gently, so as not to move it out of  
position. "We, who are so shamelessly addicted to the virtues and vices at play in your hearts?" Seeing as the pawn didn't interrupt, he continued in  
conversational tone: "Eternity is dreadfully boring, you know – 'tis no wonder we resort to bets and games to pass the time. Immortals have always found it  
nigh impossible not to tamper with the flick'ring candle flames of human life."

Oh, but even those games needed some extra spice from time to time~ Without taking his eyes from the chessboard, he snapped his fingers and summoned  
a shogi tile to his assistance.

"But it's when immortal plays immortal that truly wondrous games unfold; games that shift earth and sky and paradigm."

With a decisive click, he placed the tile marked with _ōshō _on the chessboard, flanking the deviant black pawn. New set-up, new rules; oh, what a session this  
would be~

"You may find there's more vicious players than I in this three-man game of chess, Shiro: ones famed for bold moves and sacrificed pawns. You might even  
prefer to be played by me, once Knowledge has informed you of the layout…?"

Smooth and cool, the board surface clung to the heat as he dragged his naked fingertips across it; and turned his back to it, striding slowly towards the high  
windows and the greedy city lights that ate the stars. The pulse of life beat slowly in the air, the pulse of all the billions of humans living under that sky:  
clueless, creative little pawns to those who possessed Knowledge of the grand games that took place on Assiah's soil…

"Who are you calling cruel, your holiness?" he murmured, seeing the dim, green glow of his eyes swim amongst the lights on the other side of the glass.  
"Who was it that speared his soul on a hook and dragged it through Acheron's waters, so I could be reeled into your plans?"

He could feel it, like myriads of ants crawling over his skin: paths of the future changing, branching, replacing old possibilities with new and strewing his  
chosen lane with minefields of uncertainty.

"_A pawn we both use that neither monopolizes, you say…?_" he thought to the panorama at his feet. "_A wild card..._"

Schemes with no margin for error are worthless. The future is flexible, with all the intricate patterns of interference that determine its course: obstacles and  
possibilities spawn incessantly, and are consumed just as quick by the eternal continuum of Change.

Schemes had to be flexible. Like water shaping its course over stick and stone, they had to change and evolve with circumstance; and so, his plans were never  
so rigid that a twist of fate could not be absorbed without breaking them. Never so narrowly cut that he could not enjoy a sojourn from Chance and Seren-  
dipity – twin mistresses whose courtship he very much appreciated. After all, it was the element of unpredictability that made playing this game so interesting.  
So fun.

_So challenging._

He broke into laughter, then: roiling, cackling laughter, while the city lights below – _his _city,_ his _starlit stage! – bathed his thin form in eerie shadows.

"'Collateral damage', hm~?" he grinned, eyes agleam with a lunatic's excitement. "I wonder what kind of collateral damage will be left in the wake of this  
ineffable game? What battles will be won, what sacrifices made; how high the tally of loss must reach, to let the victor scale the pile of corpses to the sky?  
Will you hear their wailing then, your holiness? The pitiful chorale of mortals wondering what higher purpose their misery is funding, and if the recompense  
is truly worth the cost? Between divine and diabolic; who can tell the two apart, as motives differ while the methods are deceptively alike?"

Swam in the net and swallowed the bait; and couldn't wait, _couldn't wait _to see what lay around the next road-bend! Who would lead and who would follow,  
in this twisted tango whirling on the precipice of Perdition? Black and white and turncoat grey, all drawn like moths to flame by this flickering Possibility to shape  
the course of history – oh, this game just got _wahnsinnig gut!_

"And you wish me to drag a poor human into this pandemonium of clashing chords and twisted strings? Well well…" Like fern leaves uncurling from their folds,  
his arms spread outward as he spoke, lips grinning and eyes gleaming, to the starry dome outside the glass: "Thy Will be done~"

* * *

**A/N: You might notice that I'm mixing elements from Göthe's ****_Faust _****with the outcome of the traditional folk tale… and maybe you could  
just let that slide in favour of a good story…? x')**

**Just so that I don't go spreading misinformation**, I'm gonna point out that I'm tweaking things a bit. There's a difference in pronunciation of _shiro _(white)  
and _Shirō _(usually transcribed _Shirou_). So the two aren't homophonous, and this is to be regarded as more of a pun thing – say, if you pronounced Shiro's  
name a bit sloppily, you'd get "white". (Like "Harry" and "hairy": a pun that is the basis for a well-known Swedish abridged series of Harry Potter.) I'm writing  
his name as plain "Shiro" because… it looks better. Typographically. I mean, look at the balance. Odd number of letters always looks better. Catchier. Especially  
disyllabic names with one closed syllable coupled with one open syllable. It's a perfect inclination in letter height, too: it forms a much more natural, balanced  
entity for the eye to rest on than "Shirou".

(Yep, I'm aware that I sound ridiculous when I start this kind of monologue, but it doesn't make it any less true that I pay _insane _attention to this kind of stuff. x'D)

**In case you were wondering** what will happen to my plot, now that Lucifer has made his entrance as Satan's Son No. 1, suffice to say that I have a  
solution for it. Like Mephisto, I try to keep my plotting flexible and resilient should Lady Chance conduct some unexpected somersault. =)

**Glossary and other stuff!**

**Opening night **is the premiere performance.

**Pathos** stems from Greek, meaning _suffering _or _experience_. Not suffering per se, but the rhetorical art of invoking emotion (the spectrum of grief in particular,  
but not necessarily) in one's audience to bias it towards making a certain judgement: a judgement not based on reason, but on emotion.

**Logos** is, again, Greek, and means many things: _speech _is the rhetorical meaning_._ It's the power of the word itself, and its capacity to convey a message to  
listeners_._

**Ad lib** is short for **ad libitum**, meaning _at liberty_. In music, this means you have the liberty to improvise – in a fashion complying with fundamental aspects  
of the music such as prescribed chords – the melody or tempo in which you play. It's about the same meaning in theatre.

**Fugue** is another musical word. It's the term for a composition that uses several individual melodies (or the same melody at different pitches) that interweave  
to form a harmony. I really like the theory of creating intertwining layers and weaving them into something bigger, so I tend to mimic that (or try to) when I write.

**Niccólo Paganini **was an Italian virtuoso violinist, rumoured to have attained his skill through a pact with the Devil. He's said to have had extremely long  
fingers, which would explain why he could do things on a violin that few others could (or can).

**Uriel** is the guardian of the gates of Eden. He's also known to be as fierce and unforgiving as any demon, so… no climbing that fence if you want to keep your  
head.

**Aziraphale** is the name of the _first _holder of the flaming sword, according to the gentlemen Gaiman and Pratchett. _Good Omens_ is simply awesome, so do  
read it if you haven't already. =)

**Metatron** is the Voice of God. This particular version of him, with hoodie and suit, is from the lovely film _Dogma_, where he's played (of course) by the Voice  
himself: Alan Rickman.

**ōshō **is the shogi tile denoting the king.

**Acheron **is one of the five rivers of the Underworld in Greek mythology: more precisely, it is the river of pain. In the _Inferno_ part of _Divina_ _Comedia_, Acheron  
constitutes the border to Hell.

I wouldn't say I'm a fan of **Megadeth**, but when writing my brain burped up _Symphony of Destruction _as the obvious natural choice when Mephisto was  
reviewing his work, and my subconscious tends to have better ideas than my waking mind anyway. =w='

_Just like the Pied Piper  
Led rats through the streets  
We dance like marionettes,  
Swaying to the Symphony...  
Of Destruction_


	62. 114: Different eyes

**A/N:** **Hello, guys and gals and all the rest.** I don't think I can say this in any manner that would let me keep my dignity, but my short BtEatB-scribble  
on Mephisto as human and Shiro as demon is being turned into a doujinshi. And it looks bloody awesome. QwQ Go bother **_Time-King_** on deviantArt if you're  
curious to see it.

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

It's amazing, how little that actually changes when the world goes under.

The sky is still blue, the birds still sing, the breaks are still too short. The world doesn't care. Not one bit.

Only humans do.

They seemed to only exist in the periphery of his vision, peoples' eyes. Cautious glances en passant. Skulking peeks barricaded behind books. Curious, prying,  
but never asking.

You could tell by the eyes who was exorcist and who was regular student, these days. Regular students stepped out of his way, eyes tiptoeing past his for fear  
of angering the violent delinquent with the moniker Satan's Vessel. Exorcists' eyes lingered on him like fingers on a trigger, ready to do what had to be done  
at first sign that the Devil had claimed his host.

Different eyes. Different truths.

One thing remained indisputably true. If the God of Demons did obtain his vessel, there was no contesting him. There was no student, teacher or field exorcist  
on site who could fight him off; no course of action possible, save one.

Destroy the vessel.

* * *

Shizuku's eyes were obsidian black, forged in the maw of a volcano and unrelentingly hard when ignoring him. He sat next to Ryuuji in cram school, as the  
half-demon had been assigned to copy notes for him as long as his arm was in cast. Shiro had apologised for that, hadn't meant to hurt him in their brawl,  
but…

Words. What are they but pale reflections of what we think and feel?

* * *

Midori's eyes were wasp venom, sharp and burning and persistent. How he had gained that strength; what Mephisto had done to him; how he could be able  
to host Satan – questions, questions. Always the same questions. Always the same answers.

"Why don't you answer? Why shield him, Shiro-kun?" She wasn't screaming; only her eyes were. They searched him, pierced him, clawed at him. She wanted  
to know. She wanted to understand; wanted to help.

"Because he has nothing to do with this." He tried to walk past and leave her begging eyes behind. "Please, Midori-chan: I'm trying to get to my cla-"

"You go nowhere."

He didn't. He stopped dead in his tracks, with one hand frozen where it had been about to deposit a cigarette between his teeth. He stopped, because that  
wasn't Midori.

"You stay, and you _answer_", she snarled, hairs bristling and lips drawn back from her teeth. "What are you, Shiro-kun?" Her ears streaked backwards, like rice  
stalks bending in the wind. "You look human, you smell human: why is demon's strength in your arms? Why is demon's look in your eyes?" She advanced a  
step with each question, barking them at him in forceful growls. "Why do demons have a home in your heart? You say Pheles has nothing in this." Midori  
halted her advance. She was magnificent… a demon's strength and a human's heart, joined as one in the radiant force of nature that pressed him into the  
corridor wall. "I say you lie."

Yes. He lied. And lived the lie, as he'd agreed to do for a chance to set his wrongs right.

* * *

Sen… He could see himself reflected in her big, vacant eyes. There was nothing there: no pity, fear, compassion or rejection. Nothing but a man's dim silhouette  
framed in darkness.

It was Sen who told him that Midori had been temporarily suspended from school, after threatening Samael in person to tell the truth. He should've known,  
when her seat had been empty during class, but…

_But she shouldn't have gotten in trouble for his sake_.

No one should do that. That was the whole point: him steering the shit away from others. Midori wasn't supposed to get in trouble.

Midori wasn't supposed to care about him.

"You're not like the Futotsuki. You're not like anyone." Sen had been calm, though. That creepy variety of calm. You aren't calm when your girlfriend gets  
suspended for threatening the principal's life. "Are you sure you are completely human, Shiro-kun? You had no grandparent of demon blood?"

"No, I'm human. All relatives I know of are human. I'm just…" Yeah, what? "…different."

* * *

The demon had pulled all strings he had to make the Council conclude that Shiro's lash-out had been provoked – severely provoked – and that it was a perfectly  
human response to the immature, hazardous course of action the Yaonaru brothers had taken. And hadn't it proven, rather than refuted, that Shiro was able  
to protect himself from possession even when dealt harsh psychological blows?

There seemed to be all the words one could ever need, when a demon reached out for them.

* * *

Philosophy. Theology. Italian. Sessions with Father Hayashi. The new curriculum filled out his formerly airy schedule to that of a full-time university student.  
There was always homework to be done, books to study, papers to write: every waking hour, there were tasks calling for his attention. Shiro didn't mind. Didn't  
mind at all.

Distraction is an underestimated painkiller.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Dear Dare mo  
**No, Shiro won't be pranking Mephisto with any bubblegum, I'm afraid. Pranks always yield retaliation, and Shiro doesn't want to play those games anymore. =/  
Uh, as for whether I'm like Samael/God or not, you can read the post below and decide for yourself. n_n'

**Dear EiseiNoMuzai2 – and everyone, really  
**That's heart-warming. x) No, I don't think I will trash _The End of the Beginning_. *knocks on wood* I appreciate that people point out my slips so I can correct  
them. =) Sometimes I am aware of them, and play this mini-game with myself where I develop explanations that will make my earlier mistakes work out. As  
mentioned in the previous chapter (strategically placed way down at the bottom, where nobody reads x'9), I've crafted a solution that will explain how Mephisto  
could say what he said in ch 51, and also fix a mistranslation in the published volumes. =9 (Thank you, whichever translator is behind that!) Now I'm just  
waiting for the opportunity to implement it.

/ Dimwit


	63. 115: Inferno

**A/N: I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Italian lessons had been assigned to a classroom Shiro had never heard of. Several turns of asking finally had him scale a richly embellished spiral staircase in  
the library building that housed literature in foreign languages. Top of the Eastern tower, the librarian had said. The room in question was a reading room,  
designed as a studiolo in Italian Renaissance style, but it had ended up being used as storage space. The miscalculation was, as always, the human factor:  
students couldn't be bothered to haul books up five floors of stairs just to read in a fancy environment.

When Shiro pushed open the creaky door, he found that the studiolo had been restored to its former function. Book cabinets, inlaid with the Order's emblem  
in intarsia, had been custom built to cover six of the octagonal tower's walls. Heavy, burgundy wallpaper climbed up to a frieze with the Order's motto: _Bellum  
Fatum Vita Mori_. Above it, the walls gathered in a deep blue dome painted with the stars and their constellations: Libra, Pisces, Hydra, Orion…

"Cosy, isn't it?"

Shiro's attention snapped to the high, stained glass window, where the thick tower walls provided a niche deep enough to sit in. And on the lavish, tasselled  
cushions in that niche, there sat indeed someone already.

"_You _are gonna teach me Italian?"

Had there not been a very good reason for him to learn Italian, he would have walked out and slammed the door behind him.

"I'm the only person in this school who is fluent in both Italian and Japanese."

Person, was it? Counting himself among the teachers, exorcists, students; _humans_. Without an ounce of shame, either. Deliberately, no doubt: no words  
came out of that mouth by accident. And the bastard sat there, _lounging_, with a sassy smile that-

A smile that had always contained the challenge to go against him. Contest his position. Measure his skill. _Play._

"_...I won't fucking play._" Without a word, Shiro let the door click shut around them. "_But I won't admit defeat by_ _you_." As if on cue, Samael rose from the  
cushions, graceful as a tendril of smoke, and assumed a seat at the plain wooden table. Effortless. In control. "_You knew my decision even before I made it,  
didn't you?_" Shiro closed the distance to the other chair with no hurry and no hesitation, steadily meeting the vivid eyes that matched the stained glass.  
"_Every movement I make, you read. Every thought I have, you predict. Or plant._" He dumped his books on the table. "_A smarmy fucking snake, that's what  
you a-_"

"Buongiorno~!"

Shiro jumped back reflexively as Mephi- as Samael sprang up from the chair like some insane jack-in-the-box, arms spread and face beaming.

"Lesson one!"

Shiro's head jerked backwards, to avoid the finger shoved at his face; letting him be successfully ambushed by the chair he'd pulled out to sit in.

*crash*

"Italians are very expressive, with body language and verbal language alike", the demon explained, surveying his floored handiwork with a pleased smile. "So  
when you talk, make sure to talk with your whole body."

Shiro took a moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath, to cool a _compelling _urge to throw things. Right. Samael taught by practical example.

Italian lessons would be hell.

* * *

**A/N:**

_Bellum Fatum Vita Mori?_

I'll say straight away that I'm not sure about which order to read the motto in, on the emblem, because I suck at heraldry. (Oi, **_Alina Wolve_**: got any ideas on  
that? =) ) And though "manga Latin" is vastly different from actual Latin, I gave translation a go. It didn't turn out very well. x'D Latin grammar being the hell  
it is, it's possible to get many different sentences. If you have any experience with Latin translation, _please _let me hear your opinion!

If you peek at the illustrations of the Order's emblem, there's two possible ways of reading the motto. It doesn't matter which, really, but the placement of  
_fatum _could determine its use as either verb or noun, and its relation to _bellum _could make the latter either a noun or an adjective. Anyhow:

1) Bellum fatum; vita mori – a beautiful fate, to die from life / to die in a vivacious manner

2) Bellum, vita: mori fatum – War, Life: (it is) fate to die (I would've liked an _est _here at the end, though) / War, Life: to die has been spoken

**TL;DR**  
In essence: (beautiful) fate, war, life, and to die (either through something beautiful or through life itself). I suppose one can guess the gist of it, with or without  
coherent sentences.


	64. 116: Inquirer

**A/N:** **…hi? I'm not dead. ^_^' Universities think that Christmas holiday is the most opportune time for studying, with a belated Christmas  
gift of exams in January.**

**Important note: **those who actually know their Bible are most welcome to point out if I've misunderstood something. I pick most of the reasoning from  
articles by various Catholic bishops, but there's a lot of room for human error when transcribing that from article to fiction. Please, guys: if you spot any  
blunders, help me correct them!

**Special thanks** go to the online Roman Catholic Catechesis, Catholic Education Centre, the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, and _The Oxford Handbook  
of Theology and Modern European Thought_, for inspiration.

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

_It will be quite different from your other subjects. You are required to learn, but above all you are required to grow: the only exam you need to pass is being  
convincing enough to be elected among the catechumens. They will want to see the signs of budding faith in you, see that you have already begun converting  
in heart, and that you repent in earnest and wish to change your way of life – and no pre-marital frivolities, of course. Absolutely inhumane conditions, if you  
ask me, so if you ever need relief I'll be happy to summon Carmilla for you._

_Now, in order to be convincing you'd do well to begin as a searcher and grow by degree, so that they can observe your progress. Listen, inquire, and make it  
seem like you soak up every word. The sponsor I've secured for you is a trusting old soul; it won't be hard to convince him that your intentions are sincere.  
The parishioners might require more effort, but if the shepherd is convinced then the sheep are likely to follow._

* * *

Once a week Shiro took the tram to Southern True Cross Town, far off where the Academy was no more than a swollen zit on the horizon. He'd never really  
been to those parts, only knew what was said of them in that kids' rhyme he'd learnt long ago.

_If you ever visit True Cross East, you'll be beaten blue at least  
If you journey to the West, you'll see stuff you never guessed  
If you're going to the summer South, all day long you'll stuff your mouth  
But if it's to the wintry North you're going, you'll see the wealth of some is growing_

Absolutely pointless. Like all kids' rhymes.

"And on the mountain at the centre of it all, reigns the mighty emperor in heaven's hall." The last line passed his lips in a murmur as he threw a glance at  
the Academy's silhouette in the distance. He knew what True Cross Town looked like from up there. Knew that the halls at the summit were indeed lined  
with gold and treasures. Kids' rhymes are funny sometimes. Full of things you don't pay real attention to until you're grown up.

The South was famed for its food markets. Just walking down the central market street had you feeling like you'd eaten a five-course meal, with all the delicious  
smells that beckoned from the diners and delis. It was a nice part of True Cross Town. Not the richest, but not the poorest: a bustling district, the one were you'd  
find tiny shops that had been in the same family for five generations or more, and even more families living all around the market street.

They were a small assembly of aspiring converts: three, to be exact. He mistook Mrs. Yamada and Mrs. Tsubura for childhood friends, at first: both were in their  
mid-forties, both dressed and talked the same, and they seemed to have the same hobbies. It turned out they'd never met before they joined the Gospel classes  
at the monastery, but since they were essentially the same being split in two bodies they treated each other like long lost sisters. It was fascinating, and just a  
little bit scary.

There quickly developed a cordial kind of disinterest between them and Shiro, as the age gap and lack of mutual reference points made their interactions too  
much like a mother asking her son about what he did in school today. Yamada and Tsubura had soon made it a habit to accompany each other to and from the  
Gospel school, while Shiro made it a habit to linger a while longer and talk some more with Father Hayashi.

Ah, yes. Hayashi. The old abbot in charge of the monastery was a man held together by sinews and faith – and possibly the knowledge that if he passed on,  
nobody would have the expertise to care for his beloved orchids. They occupied every window in the counselling room – except the ones with too much sun,  
that didn't agree with them at all, had to avoid too much direct sun – and Hayashi was already busy tending to them when Shiro found him.

"Staying behind today again, Fujiwara-kun?"

"The name's Fujimoto, Hayashi-sama." Fujiwara, he'd learnt, was the monk that was in charge of cooking for the monastery's inhabitants. "I have Thursday  
afternoons off", thanks to a certain someone in charge of schedules, "so, if I'm not bothering you…?"

"I'm your sponsor, Fujimoto-kun: I'm here for you to bother with anything that concerns faith and Catholic life", Hayashi reminded him while gingerly wiping  
an orchid's leaves with wet cloth. "That's all I'm good for, I reckon", he added with a sideways smile. "What young people do today and what young people did  
in my day are worlds apart. Was there something on your mind?"

"I was wondering…" Here we go, be a convincing candidate. "If God is good, and all-powerful: why is there so much evil in the world?"

"That's a question all humans pose to themselves at some point in life. The human heart is torn between good and evil, you see, and it's in our free will to  
choose which call to answer. God is all-powerful and infinitely good", Hayashi turned a pot so that the voluptuous, ultra-violet flowers faced away from the  
window and into the room, "and because He is infinitely good, He will not interfere our free will to choose. Free will is the greatest gift God gave to man.  
Greatest gift of all."

"So humans decide to do evil things, and God just lets them?" That didn't sound like the best system. "Wouldn't it be more 'good' to interfere and keep us from  
harming each other?"

"Would it, really? If you take a moment to think about it", he dusted off his hands and proceeded to the next orchid, "would you want a life where all you could  
do was act according to a higher power's will?"

He hadn't meant that God should interfere in _everything_, that would be- …whatever. Be a convincing candidate. That's all he had to do.

"I never thought of it like that… but… you're right." Rule of duality? Yeah, he could run the rule of duality. That and free will – that would look good. "If we're  
not given the option of doing wrong, we can't do what's right", he pondered aloud. "That's what free will is all about. If we can only do what God thinks is right,  
we're not doing what's right at all; we're just puppets doing the only thing our strings allow us to do." …bonus points for personal experience? "_Use what you  
got. It's not like it doesn't fit the subject._"

"That is one way of putting it, I suppose. No one can claim to be truly righteous if there is only the right option to choose – is that what you mean to say…?"

He nodded. Right and wrong: simple words, ones that inhabit in every language known to man. Simple, but nonetheless deceptive. One man's right is another  
man's wrong, no? So if right isn't always right, and wrong not always wrong… how do you know?

"If… you did something", Shiro ventured, rolling his unlit cigarette idly between his fingers, "and you intended to do good but things turned out bad: did you do  
a good or a bad thing?"

"Very good question, Fujimoto-kun, very good question!" He didn't know how old Father Hayashi was, but old enough to repeat things twice and forget that  
everyone's hearing wasn't as poor as his own. "There's three things that determine if an act is good or bad: the object the act is directed at, the circumstances  
surrounding the act, and the… the intentions behind the act. And, of course, the object the act concerns. If one of these three is morally evil, then the act itself  
is morally evil. Are you planning on lighting that?"

"What? No – force of habit. Sorry", he excused, and added something reminiscent of a smile for good measure. "Am I getting you right if I think that good  
intentions and special circumstances don't matter, if the act itself is considered evil?"

"That's it, Fujiwara-kun. No matter how good intentions one has, such as stealing to feed the poor, an act like stealing is always a sin by God's law."

Come on, there _had_ to be mitigating circumstances! Regret, repent; wasn't that what the Church taught? Repent and the Lord will forgive? There were _always  
_exceptions to _every _rule, with the right circumstances!

"Say you _thought_ you were doing the right thing", he postulated, admiring the old, dark book cabinets in the room without really seeing them. "You were  
helping someone with some minor task that didn't seem at all harmful, and you just wanted to be a good friend, and then it turns out that small task you were  
helping with was part of something much bigger that was downright horrible?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Fujiwara-kun! It seems I didn't grasp your question correctly. I'm getting old, I suppose. You see, there are three things that determine if an  
act is good or bad." Shiro was about to inform him that he'd explained that already, but halted at the abbot's next words: "But before that, there are two  
requirements that must be met if an act is to be judged as good or evil in the first place. It must be performed out of free will, and with full knowledge of what  
one is doing. Now, if you were just helping a friend, and didn't know that friend was intending to do evil things, then your action cannot be judged by moral law."

It could have been the afternoon sun crouching down to peek in through the windows, but the room suddenly felt a bit… Yeah, that was probably it. Autumn  
sun through the window.

"Uh, another thing I've meant to ask…" Shiro resumed distractedly. "Why are there demons?" Noticing the surprise on Hayashi's face, he decided on a recap in  
case the old man had forgotten: "I'm in exorcist cram school, as you know. I know demons are real. I know Satan is real. What I don't get is why. Why create  
something like that? Why would anyone want that in his creation?"

Mixing honest interest with feigned was a sure way of seeming more authentic, just like twisting truth was a more convincing way of misleading than telling  
downright lies. Samael was a good teacher. In the worst sense of the term.

"Has Igarashi-sama touched upon the subject of angels in your schooling?" asked the abbot, and gingerly tied another supporting hoop around a stem heavy  
with bright yellow and cerise flowers.

"Angels are God's servants and messengers, and one of them was supposedly a bad apple and rebelled", he summarized. "What I don't get is that we have  
demons around us all the time, every day – and you never once see any angels. Why all the demons and no angels? How can we know that angels exist, and  
that Satan used to be one?"

"Through God."

The old abbot had a grandfather smile. The kind of smile that has friendliness pouring in torrents from every wizened wrinkle it puts in the skin; the kind that  
makes you love wrinkles, 'cause they're like visual happiness. He motioned him to take a seat at the table, and seated himself on the opposite side.

"The Holy Bible is how He tells us about our origins and our future, and about the other inhabitants of the world we live in", he explained, in a voice as thin and  
crinkly as himself. "Some angels rebelled against God, before the Great Flood purged the world, and as punishment they were cast out of heaven and became  
demons; and their leader was Satan, who was the most powerful of them. So you see, the existence of demons in itself is proof of the existence of angels, even  
though we see far less of them. _Why _we see more of one and less of the other", he turned his palms up on the table in a gesture of excuse, "only God knows."

There were times when God bore an eerie resemblance with a demon. The whole knowing-everything-but-acting-mysterious-and-testing-you-without-telling-you  
behaviour was a description that would fit just as well for Samael.

That wasn't something he said to Father Hayashi, of course. Instead, he rested his elbows on the table where he sat, and rested his chin on his clasped hands.

"I still don't see why the rebellious angels were allowed to remain. God must've known they would only make matters worse on earth: there must have been  
some _reason _he kept them, and let the angels play a more secondary role."

"Ah: you seek purpose", Hayashi smiled warmly. "That's good, that's good. See this flower?"

Yes. _Dracula chimaera_. Rare species of orchid. Native to the Andes. Hayashi told him every time he stayed after Gospel school. The flower itself was a mottled  
red and white with loads of weird hairs sticking out, and only three petals: why the abbot liked that mutated splatter of dog vomit better than his other orchids  
was beyond Shiro.

"God created this flower with just the right smell to attract bees; and bees He created to be drawn to the smell of this flower. Bees have hairs on their hind  
legs for the sole purpose of carrying pollen away from this flower; and this flower has pollen created specifically to stick in the hairs of bees. You see? Everything  
fits together", he confided softly. "Every little thing in God's creation fits together with the whole, in the great weft that we're all part of. Subconsciously, we  
know this."

Father Hayashi's wizened fingers tapped lightly at the cassock's heavy fabric, above the heart.

"That is why, all our lives, we seek meaning. When we see every day how everything fits perfectly together like this, we assume there must be some higher  
purpose behind it all: and that purpose is God. When we feel our hearts longing for meaning, they are responding to the Lord's call. He is the meaning and the  
truth, and in accepting Him into our lives we find our place in the great whole of His creation; just like the bee was created to seek the smell of the flower, we  
were created with a desire to seek God. In Him, our hearts find their purpose, and our souls their peace."

He could have scoffed at it all. Not only is it frustrating to get an answer to a question you didn't ask, but higher purpose? Shiro had never been the kind to  
think there was such a thing. Not for individual humans, and not for humanity as a whole. That everything in the world connected perfectly was a result of  
evolution, if you asked him.

But he couldn't deny that Father Hayashi did seem at peace. It was something Shiro had noticed the very first time he met him. There was a _something _around  
him – around everyone at the monastery – that he could only describe as the opposite of the sensation demons gave off. Demons were chaos, desire, impulse;  
this was... stability. The presence of someone who simply was... at peace.

Because God had shone his light on them? Because belief gave them strength, whether or not the God they believed in actually existed?

"May I ask you something, Fujiwara-kun?"

"Fujimoto", he corrected reflexively, and nodded to indicate that he may.

"My bad: Fujimoto-kun." Hayashi's runny old eyes settled on something slightly above Shiro. "Pardon if I'm too intrusive, but is that really your natural hair…?"

Shiro's hand went to his hair, reflexively, as if he wasn't sure either.

"Yeah. Bad genes, early greying."

"The Lord works in mysterious ways", he chuckled. "It's the most awful thing to say, isn't it? That we have no way of telling what God intends, and that what  
happens to us might be part of a greater plan, but it might as well be chance?" He shook his head, still wearing his grandfatherly smile. "Would you like to stay  
for dinner, Fujimoto-kun?"

"Huh?"

"It's my task as sponsor to show you the ropes of Christian life, isn't it? And you have more questions on your mind, I'm sure. Would you like to join us…?"

"Yeah, that'd be really nice of you."

_The sponsor I've secured for you is a trusting old soul; it won't be hard to convince him that your intentions are sincere._

* * *

**A/N: The perfect mutualism/parasitism** between the world's organisms is used in the Roman Catholic Catechism as evidence of the intelligent design by  
a supreme divine entity, so even though the flower-and-bee simile is pretty lame I thought something like that would fit.

**Playing with the layout of True Cross Academy Campus Town  
**Which is the full name that I usually shorten down, because a) it's too damn long and b) seriously, _all that_ was built because of the establishment of the  
_academy_? 0.o Well, it makes Mephisto fit better into the role of emperor… Anyway, it struck me that the layout of the town, with the districts named after  
the four compass points, allows for a fun parallel to the _shitennou,_ the four heavenly kings that represent the compass points in Japanese Buddhist tradition;  
and the fifth compass point, the centre, would of course be represented by the Academy itself.

- **Jikokuten** rules the East, representing spring, water, strength, and the colour blue.  
- **Zōchōten** rules the South, representing summer, fire, prosperity, and the colour red.  
- **Kōmokuten** is the Lord of Limitless Vision (with a third, all-seeing eye) and rules the West, representing autumn, metal, awareness, and the colour white.  
- **Tamonten** rules the North, representing winter, earth, wealth, and the colour black. (The fifth district of True Cross North is the low-income one shown right  
before the Impure King arc, so I thought that, well: maybe there's wealth in the North, but not for everyone.)  
- **Taishakuten** (帝釈天) is the Lord of the Center, and rules over the four kings from his "second heaven", which is situated at the top of a mountain... 天 is fun,  
because it's the same kanji that's used in the Japanese rendition of "Samael": 砂漏天. 天 means either sky, heavens, or emperor.

**And a tiny nod **to dear old Wu Cheng'en.


	65. 117: Memento

**A/N: This idea about possession **is a thought that has grown into headcanon for me, and one of those ideas I'll be returning to play more with in the future.  
I think maybe some of you have thought the same thing? =)

**Thank you so much, Dare mo!** Wow, that will be enough to cover his whole Italian education until Rome! I promise to be more specific next time. x') Keep your  
soul and eye colour; I'm cheap. ;)

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

It's not the lies.

It's not the secrets.

It's the silence.

The silence that tears the screams out of your chest, with claws of betrayal and broken glass.

* * *

"Language shapes thought; thought shapes humans; humans shape society - and society, in turn, plays a part in the shaping of language. The very fundament  
of human existence, therefore, is mastery of language."

It took a few Italian classes for him to realise that Samael wasn't acting. That he wasn't faking that smile in some messed-up attempt to keep the puppet show  
running. That he wasn't faking… at all.

"...me li as... as-ci-u-go aru sole e magari divent... diventano turoppo chiari." Fuck. His tongue was cramping.

"Again. Feel the placement of your tongue, the setting of your jaw: keep the apex against the alveolar ridge, as in the picture."

Jumbled words. Puppets without strings. Shiro stared through the crayon illustration, wondering why it didn't just catch fire. Garish doodles that didn't make one  
shit of sense. Like Samael.

Not a word about his betrayal. Not a single hint of gloat. No _Schadenfreude_, as the Germans had so accurately named it.

He would've preferred that. If the damn fuckhead was gonna be a demon, he could at least act like one. Make a show of it, _relish _in it; show how fucking pleased  
he was with himself.

But Samael neither hid nor flaunted his victory. As if it didn't matter. As if it was just another document, signed and stacked on his desk.

He wasn't even pretending.

He just didn't care.

"Buongiorno , signora Raccagni", he spoke with flawless accent, barely even looked at the course book over his magazine. "Venga, venga...ecco si seda qui. Come va?"

"Niente male, gurazie. Andura... and_rà_ ancora me... me-gli-o con i caperi in orudine. Shtavo... sta-vo-lu-ta me il taglia-"

"Me li taglia."

"Me _li _taglia... anche un pó?"

After all he'd done.

"Glieli spunto soltanto?"

Played him like one of his goddamn toys.

"No, no, me li shcali un po... chino, peruché cosí non mi pi... pi-achiono-"

"Piacciono."

"Mi piacciono più. Po-i dobu... _dov_rei, fare anche il corore, vede?" And it hadn't even been amusing enough to gloat over? "_I was so fucking stupid._"

Stupidity doesn't count among the cardinal sins, but it should. It fucking should. Because it's just as harmful, just as irresponsible, and just as easy to indulge  
in. Walk the simple path. Take the simple choice. Don't bother thinking, questions are too tiresome.

The silence never left; no matter if he rehearsed Italian until his tongue went numb, it was still there. Taut. Quivering, vibrating, _begging _to snap; cut bleeding  
gashes in the air, steel strings leaping of the shrieking neck of a burning violin.

_at least have the decency to show my destruction was more than an idle pastime_

But it kept playing. Tuneless disharmony. Screeching silence. Unsaid words grating nails – _purple claws _– over his eardrums.

Samael knew it, oh yes, he knew. Knew aaall the strings to pull, all the buttons to push. He knew Shiro hated the silence more than anything. He knew Shiro  
refused to let him have the pleasure of knowing how much it hurt.

He knew perfectly well that the daggers of betrayal strike deeper the closer you are; slow daggers, slipping in between the ribs through charming smiles, not  
noticed until they strike the heart.

And there he sat, in his fucking Renaissance chair, reading his fucking shoujo manga, and waited in silence for an outburst that would never come.

"Hmm~ getting better, albeit slowly. It will come easier once your mouth is accustomed to the sounds", hummed the demon in chipper tones from behind the  
magazine pages. "What the mind forgets, the body remembers forever~"

"Coming from a guy who doesn't even have a body." No. Don't rise to taunts. Shut his mouth, shut his ears: focus on the never-ending page 29.

"Letting emotion get in the way of your thinking again?" came an amused remark, followed by a light tap on his head from the pointer.

"_Ignore it._" And wish him to hell.

"A very bad habit for an exorcist, Shiro; and an insult to your intellect, at that. I've had many bodies, and each one remembered." Samael splayed his fingers  
over the scrawny chest of Faust's body, and brought his voice into that _pompous_ cadence of his: "The rich phonemes of German, engraved forever in muscle  
memory, roll off its tongue as easily as they did when this body belonged to Johann; and like Johann, it has no fondness of pomegranates."

"_Ignore it._" He had a favourite daydream for occasions like these: that he had let Tanzi's spies finish their work in Deep Keep.

"I used to like pomegranates, when I had a Greek body", Samael soliloquized into his magazine – why care if he listened, when he never cared about him at  
all? "Possessing someone is a curious thing – like moving into a house with the former owner's possessions still in place, I suppose you could say. Each one  
still furnished with all manner of quirks and routines acquired throughout life; the body remembers, long after the mind forgets."

The body of just another puppet. Then why did he-?

"_Ignore him, dammit. Don't listen to a demon._" Demons deceive. Demons lie.

What the fuck do you make of it when two demons' lies contradict each other, then?

One had to be lying, either Samael or the demon that had tried to possess him in his dorm room. That demon had had every reason to twist the truth to make  
him surrender; Samael didn't have to. He already had him collared and bound. Like Faust.

Like Faust? Tch, he should stop kidding himself.

That wasn't just a puppet. That body was a living, breathing memento of Johann Faust, hardwired with his habits and tastes before and beyond the departure of  
his soul.

_You were quite fond of your old friend, weren't you? Fond enough to bind yourself to him for twenty-four years, and hold on to his body and his mother tongue  
four centuries after your contract expired. You'd hate to lose a memento like that._

"_He was your friend._" About time he stopped kidding himself. "_I'm just another puppet._"

Don't let emotion get in the way of thinking?

Yeah.

Demons didn't have that problem.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Phoneme** – let's try a dangerous allegory here. Dangerous, because there's a high risk of misunderstandings occurring. But you're not linguistics students,  
so having a general idea works fine for you; and if you _are _linguistics students, you don't need any explanation. :)

You know how letters form words, yes? C + l + a +s + s = class. And you all know what a class is. Now switch c for a g, and you get _glass_: just one letter  
changed, and a different word with a different meaning.

Spoken language works the same, you could say: it's built up of small units of sound that can be strung together into meaningful words. Instead of letters,  
they're called phonemes. Switch one phoneme for another and you can (but not necessarily) get a different word with different meaning. You could think of  
a language as having two alphabets: one made of letters, and one made of phonemes. Some letters in language A may not exist in language B, and some  
phonemes used in A may not exist in B either.

It's important to remember that letters and phonemes don't correspond to one another, though. _Ash _contains three letters (a-s-h) but only two phonemes  
(a-sh). S and h just happen to be the two letters we combine when we want to represent the phoneme "sh" in English.


	66. 118: Warmth in monochrome seasons

**A/N: Messing with the Moriyamas again.** I don't think they actually have a tradition like this one: but I think it would suit them. ^_^'

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

August passed, burning the Academy complex on forested pyres. September turned gold to blood, and glazed stone walls with chilling rain that chased the birds  
southward. October snarled around the buildings, sharp gusts clawing the wizening flesh from wooden skeletons. By the by, humidity festered grey on towering  
structures. Strangled the sap in tree trunks. Shrouded Japan for her burial in the numbing winter white.

Days grew shorter, hours gasping out wispy breaths as they hurried from one cold dark night to another.

Words grew scarcer. Rusted from days of disuse. Rotted with the fallen leaves.

Sometimes, he didn't recognise his own voice.

Sometimes, he wondered if people would hear him even if he spoke.

* * *

Life squared. Straight lines of routine between four dots of bus stops: Samael, Southern Cross monastery, desk, Moriyama. Round and round. Jump on the  
ride and it'll take you there, no detour thoughts for misery to catch up on. Straight lines. Straight lines and enough work to keep his brain attached to them.

Manners are awful fucking things.

Samael didn't give a shit how he felt. Father Hayashi didn't know how he felt. Moriyama _knew_ – and politely bought his lies when he said he was fine.

Fucking incredible. That people still trust the words from your mouth when all the rest of you is screaming.

* * *

"This will be the last lesson for the season, I'm afraid." Moriyama Mayu thumbed a tiny, cloth-wrapped bundle. Her cheeks were like autumn apples, plump and  
faintly blushing in the spicy scent of the supply shop. "So I wanted you to have this." She offered the bundle to him on hard-worked palms. "It's a little early, I  
know, but nature has her own schedule. With some luck, you might even get to see them sprout before you leave."

The little exorcist supply shop was in business year around, of course, but with winter whistling at the doorstep the growing of herbs was no longer part of the  
daily work. Shiro had been assisting all semester – learning how to grow them, when to reap them, how to preserve them – and learning their uses for exorcism  
and healing. Everything from common basil to sandalwood could be used to ward off demons, and there were hundreds more to be used to treat poisoning and  
ailments in humans. Some plants were made into incenses, some were distilled to be drunk or sprinkled over the ground as tinctures; some were living  
sentinels, planted like a wall around the house.

…and then there was the warden tree.

Shiro had never heard of a tradition like that before he was apprenticed by Moriyama-san. In her labyrinthine gardens there was an old linden tree, which was  
part of the garden and yet not. It should be watered and cared for, like all the other plants; but it should never be pruned, or robbed of a single leaf. It grew in  
majestic solitude in a clearing, rearing its crown up on a trunk so massive it seemed to delve down through the ground like a drill head, through the stone pillars  
the supply shop rested on, in search of the earth below.

The linden tree had been planted when her great-great-grandmother established herself at the Academy, she'd told him. For fortune, and for protection. Each  
living thing had a spirit, and that tree was the embodiment of the spirit that guarded the house and the Moriyama family. Her great-great-grandmother lay  
buried underneath it, as did all the descendants that had continued her service as the Academy's supplier of herbs and goods. He'd seen Moriyama-san go to  
pay her respects to her ancestors, once, and seen her honour the warden tree before she washed the graves.

…and Shiro stared, in blank silence, at the handful of browning seeds the cloth had hidden.

"If you plant them before the end of October, you'll see them sprout in spring", she smiled softly, fingers still fidgeting with cloth they no longer held. "Or you  
can dry them, and they'll be good for planting at least three years from now."

"Moriyama-san, these are from-"

"Yes." She cupped his hands and brought them together, wrapping up the seeds once more. "He's protected my family for many a spring and fall, so I'm sure  
he'll do the same for you."

She hesitated, he could tell. Hesitated, because what he'd shown her was that he wouldn't acknowledge things for what they were, and she didn't want to  
make him feel awkward. So she bought his lies and joined in his silence. Worry had worn her smile, waning like the sun as the days of frost approached, but  
it still shone with warmth that almost thawed the disconnection he'd sought to drown in.

"Winter is always hard", she told him softly. "Sometimes I think the plants only make it through because they know there will be spring."

She brushed his hands gently with her thumbs – big, smooth hands in old, calloused ones. Warm, steady hands that nurtured, protected; loved. They let go  
of his, and gently pulled him into an embrace.

One can live on rice for weeks, and eventually the tongue forgets what other tastes there are; but it remembers, with voracious clarity, how good real food  
tastes when it's put before you.

Shiro's eyes shut out the world. The embrace soaked into him, saturated his every fibre with the sensation of another body breathing against his own. The  
body always remembers: no matter how long it's starved of contact, it remembers what it's like to be held close.

Moriyama's hair tickled his nose as he leaned into the warmth. It smelled of earth and pottery. He couldn't remember what his own mother's hair had smelt  
like, but he wished it had been earth and pottery.

"Thanks, Moriyama-san." It's human nature, that longing to feel. To touch. To be close. Nothing is lovelier, and nothing is more dangerous. "I'll plant them  
right away."

* * *

**A/N: With this unusually long pause in writing, **I've forgotten who wished Shiro to have a hug. =_=' But anyway, this chapter's dedicated to you. ^.^

**Warden trees** are an Old Norse custom, which you can still find alive here and there. These trees – often elm, ash, or linden – were highly revered and loved,  
so that sometimes the families tending to them would take their name from them. You all know Carl Linnaeus, right? His surname (Linné) is from the warden  
tree, a linden, which grew in his parents' homestead.


	67. 119: If you hear me

**A/N: I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

_…hi._

_I'm supposed to practice calling upon you in prayer. If you exist._

_I don't know which would be worse, honestly. If you did exist and heard me, or didn't and I was just talking to myself in my head._

_I kinda wish you did hear me. I haven't got much other people to talk to – I'm sure you know why. And even with free will and all that, I'd appreciate if you did  
step in sometimes and stopped us from doing stupid things. Wouldn't be as fun, I suppose…_

_I keep thinking it makes you a bit like Samael. Sorry 'bout that._

_…does it ever go away? Can feelings like these go away?_

_(Sheesh, I'm supposed to be honest, right? Like some sort of confession?)_

_Sometimes I wish I could just crawl out of my own skin. Shed everything and be reborn as someone else. Sometimes. Other times I wish I could turn back time  
and make it all undone. I don't know… I just don't… see how I could ever set this mess straight._

_…if they're there, could you tell them I'm sorry? Agari-chan and Katsu-san and- …you know which ones. Tell them I'm… so fucking sorry. I'd swap with them, if  
that were possible – hell, I'd… I just wish I could change everything._

_I don't know how to repent more. I don't know what to do. If you're God and all, I hope you can just scan me like a barcode on a bottle of ice tea and know  
what I mean, 'cause I can't put words on it. It's too damn big. It's like I'm gonna explode, only I never do. I keep doing these meditation exercises Sen-chan  
taught me, but I think I build up tension faster than I can get rid of it._

_I get what she meant with emotion rotting inside. That's exactly how it feels._

_I wish things were different. If I could have _one_ wish in the world, I'd wish I never ran down to Deep Keep._

_Dreams and wishes get the plants through winter, if you believe Moriyama-san._

_…I'm gonna miss her, aren't I?_

_Will she miss me…?_

_If you hear this, God, I've got some advice for you: make more women like her. Especially women that are gonna have kids._

_I'm just babbling random stuff now. Might as well get started on the homework instead._


	68. 120: goD Dog

**A/N: **Mostly from instruction sheets on rituals for Catholic clergymen.

**Refs** **to ch: 73**.

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

Shirt and suit. As if the thought of this charade didn't make him uncomfortable enough.

They were paraded up the aisle, closed in by staring walls of wood and flesh. All the parish was there, expectant to see the new lambs take their first stumbling  
steps towards membership in their flock. Christ himself had his eyes on them, it seemed, where he gazed miserably down at them from the crucifix on the altar.  
The three candidates stepped aside once at the front, as they had rehearsed with Father Igarashi. The priest himself sent them a reassuring smile, to which they  
all smiled back gratefully. Greetings were made, presentations of the events at hand were voiced; and the ceremony began.

He listened to Yamada and Tsubura state their names. Answer Father Igarashi's questions. It was just words. Words received and words given in exchange. Like  
paying for goods. Paying for the opinions you wanted to hear.

You'd think it gets easier to lie with time. It does. Just not always.

"What is your name?"

Simple question, simple answer.

"Fujimoto Shiro."

"What do you ask of the Church of God?"

Nothing. Only that it would be the cloak to go with his dagger.

"Guidance, to become worthy of god's mercy."

"God gives light to everyone who comes into this world; though unseen, he reveals himself through the works of his hand, so that all people may learn to give  
thanks to their Creator. You have followed God's light and the way of the Gospel now lies open before you. Set your feet firmly on that path and acknowledge  
the living God, who truly speaks to everyone. Walk in the light of Christ and learn to trust in his wisdom. Commit your lives daily to his care, so that you may  
come to believe in him with all your heart. This is the way of faith along which Christ will lead you in love toward eternal life. Are you prepared to begin this  
journey today under the guidance of Christ?"

"I am."

Prepared to walk the path of salvation on a devil's orders: if he wasn't struck down by lightning, there was no god.

Igarashi turned to the assembled parishioners next. No show without audience. Row upon row of faces in the pews, some he knew and some he didn't. He fixed  
his gaze far beyond them, far beyond the attentive eyes and the-

"Sponsors, you now present these candidates to us", Igarashi addressed them loudly, making sure that even the elderly in the back rows could hear. "Are you,  
and all who are gathered with us, ready to help these candidates find and follow Christ?"

"We are", the audience replied.

Hayashi's warm smile burnt his conscience.

"_Don't look at me like that._"

Proud. The old abbot was proud of him.

Shiro heard the priest's droning chant in the distance behind the globes of his eyes. Words on lucid waves, rippling audio mirages. Words of mercy, praise,  
blessing. Words for those called by the lord.

Wolf in sheep's clothing.

"It's going well, Fujimoto-kun."

Shiro jerked back into the realms of consciousness. The old abbot was beside him, suddenly, as were Yamada's and Tsubura's sponsors with them.

"No need to be tense, hm? It's rather _I _who should be tense: I could forget in which order to bless your senses."

Shiro nodded. Like a good puppet. Nodded, smiled, and waited for lightning that might still come. Waited for all this to be over.

"Fujimoto, receive the cross on your forehead. It is Christ himself who now strengthens you with this sign of his love. Learn to know him and follow him."

Nothing happened when Igarashi's thick, fleshy thumb touched his forehead. Nothing happened when the sign of Christ's infinite love was traced on his skin.  
Not that he expected anything to. It was just words. Compressions of dead air. Dreams from human lungs.

"Receive the sign of the cross on your ears, that you may hear the voice of the Lord", Hayashi's thin, old voice accompanied the tracing of the cross.

"Glory and praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ!" the spacious hall echoed back to the parishioners.

Strange, to imagine that this ceremony actually meant something to them.

"Receive the sign of the cross on your eyes, that you may see the glory of God."

"Glory and praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ!"

Did they really feel a holy presence there…? Or were they just pretending? Proving their place among God's chosen?

"Receive the sign of the cross on your lips, that you may respond to the word of God."

"Glory and praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ!"

_Every _time…?

"Receive the sign of the cross over your heart, that Christ may dwell there by faith."

Go ahead, invite the whole damn Christian pantheon – maybe Satan wouldn't get in if it was too crowded?

"Glory and praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ!"

Couldn't they just shut up?

"Receive the sign of the cross on your shoulders, that you may bear the gentle yoke of Christ."

"Glory and praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ!"

Go ahead and bless all of his body at once, that would be easier and _could they really not just shut up…?_

"Receive the sign of the cross on your hands, that Christ may be known in the work which you do.

His lips twitched humourlessly. Wonder what they'd do if he laughed? 'That Christ may be known in the work which you do'.

"Glory and praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ!"

He didn't even know if he was hearing them anymore, or if the echo kept ricochetting back and forth inside his skull.

"Receive the sign of the cross on your feet, that you may walk in the way of Christ."

His lips twitched again; some demented spasm from parts of him kept securely under lock and key-

_The word can be forged into the key for any lock, or chains that no key can loosen._

-honest, better parts that flung themselves at padded iron walls.

"I sign you with the sign of eternal life in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."**  
**  
"Amen", he breathed alongside the other candidates; now catechumens.

Regular Mass followed, where the catechumens were asked to embrace the Word; embrace God, embrace Christ, embrace the way of Christian life. Embrace,  
embrace, like one big happy family, and then be sent away before the cannibal feast on the Almighty Father's flesh and blood.

He did. Threw himself into the arms of the Word, with all the unhinged enthusiasm of a man throwing himself off a building. He knew which "god" held mastery  
over the word. He knew which "god" he had committed himself to.

No lamb. No wolf. Just a collared dog.

* * *

**A/N: So~ Facts to bore you with, 'cause hell knows they bored me when I outlined this.**

**Evangelisation and Pre-catechumenate  
**Sounds like Greek? It is. _Evangelion_ means "good news", and _katekhein_ means "to instruct orally" (katekhoumenos – "being instructed"). We see Shiro being  
accepted as a catechumen here, but before you're eligible for that you need to go through a period of introduction to the concept of God and Christian faith.  
That takes about 8-12 weeks, so count from early August to start of October here.

Outside the pure formalities, you need to _show _that you're serious about this. You need to show the first seeds of faith, repentance, understanding of the  
Church, and a profound desire to know and follow Christ: otherwise you won't be permitted as a catechumen. I fast-forwarded past most of that, because I  
lack the motivation/experience/sources to write 12 weeks of Gospel education. =u=' I'm sure it would've been boring as hell to read, too.

Still, I will try to drop some line here and there about Shiro's spiritual foxtrot, because he is in a position where he makes a fine battleground for belief and doubt.


	69. 121: Getting under your skin?

**A/N:**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

It's so easy, once you detach. When past happiness fades like a dream, and the future was repeated yesterday. Doesn't matter. Nothing does. What happens  
around you doesn't concern you. What happens to you barely concerns you. Each night is the goal line you never reach; each day you rise from the grave to  
start another disconnected marathon. Breathe and move, that's all it is. Do that and you'll be fine. Breathe and move and you're technically alive; that's all  
they need to know. By the by, that replaces any goal you had. Days mass-produce. Life becomes a monotone routine, safe and steady like tank treads that  
go straight ahead and loop, loop, loop their tracks around your thoughts and cut them up in minimum functional slabs.

It felt almost appropriate to get a mission at a mental hospital.

Metal doors. No windows. Naked concrete corridors without heating. A hospital…? Or a prison?

"Matsuri-san? Thank you for coming." Male. Doctor coat. Nasal voice. "I'm Katou Hideki. This way, please."

More corridors. More doors. Locks. Still fans, like giant spiders hanging from the ceiling. A hospital for mentally ill patients, or one for making patients  
mentally ill?

"The patient in question has been examined by several doctors already, and found to be physically perfectly healthy despite not being so. She eats and drinks  
like normal, but for some reason she grows weaker and weaker – we're at our wits' end, to be honest. Her condition was put down to hallucinati-" Coughing.  
Embarrassed professionalism. "To hallucinations – excuse me, I seem to have come down with a bit of a cold. Yes, hallucinations; and no psychopharmaca  
seem to alleviate them."

Elevator. Key required for operation. Security measures.

"The patient insists that what she has is jinmensou, and that the wound only opens up and speaks when nobody is around to see it. It's close at hand to pass  
it off as superstition fuelled by mental instability, of course, but-" More coughing. Handkerchief. Shallow, rattling breath. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I hope you  
don't catch it because of me. Now, this is the ward the patient lives in; if you follow me, please…"

It wasn't the patients that were ill. It was the hospital. Shivering through concrete veins, blubbering to itself under the echoes of footsteps on naked walls;  
demons marinating in depression and distress. Their version of a buffet.

Detach. It didn't matter. Get the job done.

"Normally, it would be called hallucinations, but I have friends who have been in contact one way or the other with the knights of the True Cross. Jinmensou  
is held by tradition to be a demonic disease, so I convinced the board to at least let you see the patient. Perhaps you can diagnose her in ways we can't.  
I- ah, have you been informed of my request? As a fellow doctor, I would be very interested to see this for myself – if possible, of course."

"You may not be able to see the demons themselves, but you might be able to observe some physical anomalies occurring while we treat the patient",  
Matsuri-sensei informed. "Jinmensou is not a disease, per definition: it's a parasitic insect demon whose larvae produce miasmic cytokines that induce  
abnormal growth in the basal layer of the epithelium. It's sentient cancer, essentially, where the larvae act like a primitive brain through sophisticated  
quorum sensing. It kills the host if left untreated, whereafter the larvae metamorphose into nymph state and emerge to mate and lay new eggs. You  
don't need to know the exact timeline of this life cycle on the exam in May", she told the students over her shoulder. "Only the progression of the  
symptoms of infection. Is this…?"

"This is the room, yes. What you say sounds highly interesting, Matsuri-san. Would you mind telling me more about this after- *cough* I'm sorry: after you  
have seen the patient?" Rattling keys, and the smooth clicks of a well maintained lock. "Itou-san? Hello. How are you feeling today?"

Starved. Starved for food, starved for the sky locked away behind iron bars covering the window.

Windows never look so tempting as they do when barred. The free fall outside them clenches so tangibly in the gut. Strange, isn't it? That fear and  
excitement share similar symptoms.

The room was small, naked: carefully disinfected of everything that promised cutting and stabbing. And Itou stared at them, all bird bones and dried-out IV  
tears merged with sheets in a sickbed.

"It says I'm going to die, doctor." Hollow eyes. Eggshells framed in sleepless sockets. "I'm going to die soon, and then I will become a dragonfly." A twitch  
in her pale lips. She knew nobody believed her. Half of her had stopped believing her, too.

"I will not let that happen, Itou-san", Katou ensured. Velvet voice. Force-fed reassurance. "I've brought a different kind of doctor to look at you."

Doubt. Resignation. That was all response Matsuri-sensei's presence drew from Itou's eyes. She didn't want another doctor. She wanted an end.

"Matsuri-san is an exorcist", he explained patiently. "These are her students, Fujimoto-san and Yaonaru-san. They can treat jinmensou."

This time, Itou looked at Matsuri-sensei for real. At the black robes. At the red and blue of the exorcist badge on her chest.

"GET AWAY FROM ME!"

Kita and Shiro both flinched at the change. From dying woman to panicked animal. Itou struggled, kicked, screamed: sharp rattles of metal punctuated her  
fit and bit into her wrists as she thrashed against the cuffs that held her to the hospital bed. Like a broken ragdoll shaken by a sadistic child. She shrieked at  
Katou, begged and screamed for him to take Matsuri away, not let her near, that she'd die if that woman touched her, that-

"It's been tapping to her nervous system!" she shouted over the outburst, hands pressed over her ears. "It's telling her things to protect itself! It's alright,  
Katou-san, it's a typical symptom of progressed jinmensou! Where does she say the wound is?!"

"On her right thigh! On the side! Please, Itou-san, you're hurting yourself! Matsuri-san only needs to look at you!"

No effect. Itou was too weak to cause harm, fortunately. Shiro and Kita each held one leg down by the ankle, while Matsuri-sensei peeled away the sheets  
and the hospital robe from the pasty skin. And the tape. And the bandage. If not restrained, it seemed Itou-san would try to remove the infection with her  
fingernails.

"Fujimoto-kun, I'll need your services as Aria! Do you know the verses to bring the wound to manifest itself?!"

He began to recite. Tuned the pleading and the screaming out. Centred himself to pour his concentration into the chant.

"You are the Lord, you alone; you have made heaven, the heaven of heavens, with all their host, the earth and all that is on it, the seas and all that is in  
them. To all of them you give life, and the host of heaven worships you…"

The cluttered flesh began to ooze. Contract. Muscles spasmed where there were no muscles, raw meat boiling like thick, congealed porridge; there was a wet,  
sucking sound, as of dragging out a boot stuck in mud… and the flesh split.

"Heeeaaaarshlaaaaahhhrr…!"

It wasn't human. It wasn't even a _face_: it was a mouth, sore and cracked and hissing, studded with damp, fleshy nodes that could have been the buds of  
infant teeth. The edges of the wound twitched and seemed to form words, but produced only guttural noises. Boils rose up through the skin around it; milky,  
wiggling boils that looked like frog's eggs when-

"_Oh god, it's… eyes…_"

Staring, oozing, _convulsing_... eyes. They lay embedded in her leg, like squishy pearls, and gyrated blindly without lids or muscles. Next to him, Kita quelled  
a gag reflex.

"Good work, Fujimoto, keep reciting!" Matsuri-sensei did her best to hold Itou still without getting bit by her. "Yaonaru, you know how to treat jinmensou?!"

Kita merely nodded, not trusting what would come out of his mouth. _Fritillaria verticillata_. Shiro had helped Moriyama harvest the bulbs just weeks ago. They  
had dried them and ground them into a fine powder that Kita poured into the wound's mouth.

"_Too bad it didn't get your hand…_"

Because jinmensou tumours had a nasty habit of rising out of the flesh, in a dying effort to bite and transfer the parasites to a new host. Like jumping frogs.

Kita yelped, but the tumour missed and fell limp against Itou's thigh: a stretched, oozing sack of tissue that evaporated into miasma before their eyes. Within  
seconds, the infected flesh had rotted and fallen off, with a clear, healthy wound left behind.

Itou had finally fallen silent. Her chest rose and fell at shocked speed, fluttering in the silence, but she wasn't afraid anymore. Wasn't being eaten anymore.

"Much better, isn't it?" Matsuri-sensei murmured softly, soothing her with idle talk and gently rubbing hands. "You won't become a dragonfly now. It's gone.  
I'm just going to clean this for you and get you some new bandages, then we'll move you to a regular hospital to heal. How does that sound?"

Itou nodded; first once, as in trance, and then three rapid times that didn't remember the first.

"That's good. And this, we will burn." Matsuri scraped the clot of grey flesh into a black plastic bag brought for the purpose, careful to use the medical gloves  
for the task. "It's standard procedure for leftovers of rot and insect demons."

* * *

Katou was greatly impressed. He wanted to know everything about demonic illnesses and parasites; or so it seemed, because Matsuri-sensei remained in his  
office for an eternity. And left her two students in the pale yellow corridor outside.

Shiro had nothing to say to Yaonaru Kita. He wouldn't mind if a bus ran him over, but didn't see the need to spend breath on telling him that.

"What is the appropriate thing to say to a conversion? Congratulations?"

It was likely a strategy for easing the tension, pairing them to work on a mission like this. Clearly conceived by somebody with no sense of strategy at all.

"I haven't converted yet. I do in April, if my faith is considered matured enough."

Kita did it on purpose, he was sure. Muffled the derisive snort, but only enough that it could still be heard.

"There's no need for us to pretend, is there? You convert for other reasons than faith."

"There is no reason to convert if it's not for faith", he replied flatly. Eyes on the office door. Lacquered wood around a tinted glass window. Let Kita prod and  
pry. He would have nothing to show for it.

"Ostensibly", he drawled. "You have also been taking classes in Italian." Sharp, intelligent eyes in his peripheral vision, scanning him for response. "You've  
been approved as an exchange student to one of the Papal universities in Rome. Scampering off with your tail between your legs, Fujimoto?"

Pathetic. With Samael for teacher twice a week, no shitty amateur like Kita could put even a scratch on his composure.

"I know things, Fujimoto", he hissed. Threatening? Pff. "I find out things. I'm not stupid. There is a reason you're suddenly converting to Catholicism, just as  
there is a reason you're applying to study abroad – a reason you're still in the Order. Want me to spell that reason out for you? Me-phi-su-to Phe-les." Kita  
glared. Long and hard.

"Oh, what a good dog you are", he sneered when no reply came. "Such a loyal, obedient little lapdog. You won't tell me? Fine." Kita stepped in front of him,  
glowered down at him, tried to look intimidating. He did a fair enough job, actually. "But if you think you're getting away because you go to Rome, you're  
wrong. _Very _wrong."

Shiro returned the stare in silence. He could snap back that he wouldn't have been Samael's dog if Kita and his brother hadn't given him a hand. Wouldn't  
change anything; only make Kita even more determined to break his resistance. Break his silence. Silence that chokes you nice and slow with secrets  
burning in your blood.

Kita's head angled, puzzlement creasing his brow.

"When did your eyes-?"

"Good work today, students", Matsuri-sensei announced. "Not torn each other's heads off yet?" Her eyes lingered on Shiro with the hint of a smile once Kita  
had stepped out of his face. "That means Ando-sensei owes me a dinner. Well done, both of you."

* * *

**A/N:**

**Jinmensou** – is what I'd consider high-octane nightmare fuel. Face wound. It's like cancer, and it can friggin' _think_. X_X It's never said exactly what it looks  
like… but I went with ectoderm-derived tissues as the basis. Ectodermal cells are the precursors of the cells that constitute your skin (epithelium). Ectodermal  
cells also form the corona and lens of the eye, so… with a bit demonic meddling with gene expression in cells… you could grow eyes out of your skin. =S  
_Fritillaria verticillata _is the flower that supposedly kills jinmensou.  
**  
Quorum sensing** – is a really cool system by which many microorganisms and some social species of insects communicate. On the microbiological level it's  
all about signals and receptors for said signals, but this allows even the most primitive organisms to "warn" each other of dangers like change of pH or  
immune cells, and coordinate their actions for the preservation of the colony. Theories suggest that it does, to a certain extent, function like a neural network  
not unlike a primitive brain.

**Mental hospitals in Japan in the 70s **– were apparently not very nice places to be. I didn't manage to find any pictures for reference, but a couple books  
that were fairly informative.  
**  
Dear Dare mo**  
Haven't read TRC, but I'll take your word for it. ^_^ (Is it a good series so it's a good thing to be similar, or a bad series so it's a bad thing? =X)

I think that what could "stay" with the body during possession is muscle memory (fingers remembering the settings on a musical instrument, the articulation  
organs remembering the settings for language) and innate physical properties (taste buds, nerve array; also addictions the host has acquired), but not the  
mental properties (artistic talent, knowledge of language and grammar, knowledge of songs and music notation). So I'm not sure that possessing a talented  
artist would make Mephisto better at art: his fingers might be better at conducting pencils and brushes, but the artistic genius itself lives in the mind that  
isn't "present" anymore. More on this in Rome. ^_^

Concerning Sen's question in ch 114: you're _veeeery _close to hitting the mark here. Very close, but not quite right. More on this in Rome. =P

Concerning Samael's monologue in BtEatB ch 17: no, you think too highly of me. x') That wasn't something I did consciously – can't answer for my  
subconscious, though. …more on this in Rome. (I should re-title this chapter "more on this in Rome".)


	70. 122: Food is culture

**A/N: With special thanks to _Fox Populi_, who will be Beta reading TEotB from now on. =) **A little nod to** _Zeitdieb_,** too. I miss your stories, dear.  
I hope you'll have the time to write again soon.**  
**

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.  
**

* * *

Shiro had discussed right and wrong quite extensively with Father Hayashi over the weeks. Topics like "good and evil" and all its relatives had also been  
touched a few times. Hayashi was well aware that the headmaster of True Cross Academy was a demon. Each time that was mentioned, the old, heavy-  
lidded eyes grew surprisingly sharp, and opinion carved a clear set of kanji lines into the skin around his mouth. Yes, Hayashi was well aware that the  
headmaster of True Cross Academy was a demon; and philanthropic demons didn't exist.

Good and evil applied to humans, and only humans. Demons were God's antithesis: pure evil, with no concept of or ability to do good. Every act they  
performed, by virtue of their nature, was evil regardless of the act itself. Hayashi had been firmly convinced of that.

Slaving away at a stove in Faust Mansion's spacious kitchen, Shiro saw no reason to disagree with the abbot's words.

"He says to hold the straws in a bundle and place them in the middle of the pot, then release them and let them fall evenly in all directions", Belial translated  
crisply.

Ukobach was a perfectionist. Someone like Samael only hired the best chef in existence, of course. The wooden spoon he carried around was alternately a  
conductor's baton, when he explained how to dice the eggplant so that the cubes became perfectly even, and alternately a drill sergeant's riding crop, when  
the outer leaves of an artichoke weren't removed the _exact_ right way.

* * *

_Food, is culture; it is the seductive tongue in which each society imparts its unique customs, history, flora and fauna. The dinner table is the battlefield of  
social life, where knowledge of a nation's culture decides the role of clown and that of king; where it is determined who is in the game, and who is out. You  
will be faced with customs very different from what you're used to in Italy, and a palette of food ingredients you aren't familiar with; and, as an ambassador  
of the Japanese Branch, it falls on you to represent us in a favourable, cultured manner. On that note, this ravioli was grossly overcooked. Good thing we  
started practising in time, isn't it?  
_

Twice a week, before every Italian class, he was made to cook a three-course dinner. "Cultural hands-on practice". Before every such dinner-class, he had  
to change from school uniform to shirt and suit. "Acquiring a sense of professional Italian dress-code".

"Did you know?" he asked without inflection. Peeling plum tomatoes was nothing like peeling daikon radishes, but his fingers were slowly getting the hang  
of it. "That he was going to trick me?"

"His highness isn't fond of sharing, whether that is plans or valuables. No, I didn't, Bocchan."

Shiro kept peeling his tomatoes. Moist, plump flesh under a thin coating of waxy skin.

"Don't call me Bocchan, okay?"

Belial was Manners incarnate. Starched and pressed with etiquette, and a smile that was a mere crease between his lips. A different kind of façade than  
Samael's, but still a demon underneath; thin as it was, that smile was just enough a crack for his true nature to seep out.

"Fascinating", he said to Shiro's back.

"What?" He didn't need to see that smile to know it was there.

"All that emotion swirling underneath the surface of your composure. I can imagine what it is like for a cat to watch goldfish swim circles in a bowl, merely  
one thin glass barrier away."

Shiro smiled humourlessly into the steam that coated his glasses, when he tried the spaghetti with a fork to check if it was al dente yet.

"Too bad Samael isn't fond of sharing, huh?"

The pasta needed more time. Meanwhile, Ukobach indicated with his spoon that he ought to pay the chicken scallopine in the skillet some urgent attention.

"You need to turn it more often: no more than 3 minutes' browning on each side. As for aversion to sharing, that is the least problematic peculiarity his  
highness has." If his lungs hadn't been as thoroughly starched as his shirt collar, he might have heaved a sigh. "Alas, underlings have to stand their superiors  
even when they are unreasonable."

Shiro wiped his hands on his apron, and set to turn the sage and cheese stuffed chicken rolls without compromising the toothpicks that held them together.  
Belial was okay. A demon, but also another poor bastard under Samael's rule. He had to see Samael every day, serve him food and drink every day, drive  
his car and keep his opinions to himself. Thinking of it that way, the cooking exercises were okay, too. It was only the dining part that wasn't.

"How did you get stuck with him, then?" Shiro glanced over at the butler's straight-backed form. "They don't teach anything about demons 'cept the best  
ways to kill you, so I don't know how stuff like employment works in Gehenna."

"The tomato sauce is about to burn", Belial enlightened over Ukobach's distressed chattering.

Shiro cursed under his breath, balanced the last scallopine on his spatula and reached over to hurriedly turn down the heat and pull the other skillet off the  
burner plate. They could have at least allowed him to cook one dish at a time… Ukobach wasn't happy with the sauce – he didn't need Belial's translations  
to get what the irate jumping up and down meant.

"Sorry, sorry." He let the remaining scallopine sputter down with the rest in the olive oil and garlic. "Doing two things at a time isn't easy."

"That is why we practise it. To get back to your question, Gehenna is not much different from Assiah, from what I understand. There are two ways to rise  
in rank: prove your power, or buy into someone else's." A crisp pause followed, the kind that might have contained body language in someone inclined to  
more overt forms of humour: "Both ways present their own hardships."

"I can imagine." Shiro measured up half a cup of white wine, all the while keeping an eye on the boiling spaghetti. Overcooking pasta was a downright sin  
in Italy, apparently. "Does that mean you get paid for working here, or leeching off his status is the payment?"

"As you ought to be aware, Fujimoto-kun, demons deal in favours. I supply the Prince with services his highness wants, and his highness in turn supplies  
me with things I want. 'Leeching off his status', as you put it, is a bonus to my employment."

"Right." Remove chicken, discard garlic: add wine and simmer for two minutes while scraping brown bits from the skillet with a wooden spoon. Not Ukobach's.  
Nobody separated Ukobach from his spoon. "I've heard him mention rank pretty often when he speaks of Gehenna. Why's rank so important? You get more  
benefits if you're higher up?"

Belial gave him an odd look; the kind that questions if you have been walking through life blindfolded, since you suddenly ask if the sky is blue. Ukobach  
was casting him similar looks, accompanied by some hand motion to his head that could, maybe, indicate that Shiro must be stupid. Or have an insect in  
his hair.

"Do you know how demons gain power to rise in rank, Fujimoto-kun?"

Come to think of it, he didn't.

"They grow stronger with age?"

"That is part of it, yes. They also consume those who are weaker than themselves."

Oh.

Shiro's stirring of the sauce became slightly slower.

_Oh._

"You eat each other", he said flatly.

"We absorb spirit energy." Demons. It always came down to the choice of words. "Rising in rank is an insurance for survival: consume others and gain power,  
or gain protection from a demon so powerful others won't dare cross him."

When Ukobach realised his chattering didn't reach through to Shiro, the little familiar rapped him smartly over the knuckles with his spoon and pointed to  
the spaghetti.

"That's one sick system you've got. Move a bit, will ya?" he said, and took the pot to pour out the water in the sink using a pair of pink-and-white polka-  
dotted oven gloves.

"It fosters the best warriors, as per Lord Satan's wishes", Belial replied as he slid out of the way with minimum movement.

The best warriors. The best butlers. The best chefs. As Shiro's vision disappeared in the steam from the pot, connections formed. Ukobach wasn't a  
perfectionist: he had become one, to keep his job. Belial had made his own adaptations, to meet Samael's demands and put up with whatever ludicrous  
ideas his master got into his head. Same with the rest of the staff, which endured lethal piano floors and thankless servitude to ensure they were good  
enough to gain protection from Gehenna's second strongest.

"Suppose it's efficient for that, yeah." He let the train of thought go without waving farewell, and focused on getting all the spaghetti in the sieve. "Has any  
demon ever gained so much power he could rival a King?"

"Not in my lifetime – maybe never. Kings generally consume them before they become real threats."

So, they were that much stronger? Figured. They were Satan's own children. Nobody could possibly…

"What prevents a King form eating all his subjects?" he spoke aloud as the question addressed his mind.

"If they ate us all, demonkind would go extinct. Other than that, nothing." That thin, creased-paper smile Belial had was getting unpleasant. "They rarely  
bother, unless it is for punishment. Consuming a demon of my level would be to them like adding a single drop of water to a vast ocean."

Samael had said something like that, hadn't he? That the Kings didn't fight each other, because the damage would be tremendous if they did. Without missing  
a beat, Shiro took the mixture of tomatoes and red pepper flakes and poured it into the simmering wine, and proceeded to add the pasta to the tomato sauce  
in the other skillet. Enough power to lay waste to continents. It was like trying to grasp that the universe was infinite, and yet expanding. That kind of power  
was godlike.

And if the Kings had been gods to humans in ancient times…

No. No, there were tracks that trains of thought shouldn't travel. That was one of them.

"There is a third way to choose, of course", Belial spoke up, and successfully pulled Shiro off track: "Escape to Assiah. There are quite a few who do that,  
I'm sure you've noticed. Coal tars. Goblins. Greenmen. Chuchi. Assiah is full of weak little things. And full of spirit energy one can capture and consume  
without risking one's own." Unpleasant smile. The kind that would look the same regardless if he were cuddling with kittens or skinning them. "Plenty of  
fish in glass bowls."

"I suppose I should say welcome to the aquarium, even if it's a little belated. Bigger fish is still fish", he returned flatly, focusing entirely on tossing the  
spaghetti with the tomato sauce. "If you didn't have to worry about getting eaten and didn't have to work for Samael: what would you do? What do you  
dream of doing?"

"Please rephrase the question."

A strangely blank expression had crossed Belial's features. He winced at the name, yes – Shiro had thrown it in there for that purpose alone – but that  
discomfort gave way to… incomprehension?

"What…?" He stopped the tossing for fear of spilling it all over the stove if he didn't keep his eyes and hands in the same place. Instead, he turned to look  
at Belial to be sure he didn't misread the tone in his voice. "You don't know what dreaming is?"

"It is when the human brain uses fragments of memory and emotion to create nonsensical show reels while sleeping", he replied, in the voice of one who  
reads aloud from a lexicon.

Belial had a human brain. No human consciousness and no human emotions, but he did have a human brain; and yet… he didn't dream?

"Demons don't dream?"

"No. Ukobach says you need to check that the sauce flavours have married, and return the chicken to the skillet as soon as they have."

"I'm on it, I'm on it. But oneiroi… No, they only induce dreams in humans, now that I think about it. Live in dreams, but can't create them. Anyway, when  
you say you dream of doing something, you mean there's some special thing you'd like to do in life."

And of all the possible answers Shiro could have expected, he had never thought that Belial would want to try figure skating.

* * *

"Ahh~ looking delicious, Shiro." Shiro declined the option of interpretation in that statement, and set the stuffed squash blossom antipasti before Samael  
without a word. "Your background in cooking shows clearly in the swift development. So, concerning your other important homework…?"

"I haven't chosen one yet."

"Any candidates, then?"

"Not really", he dodged as he seated himself and felt the annoying tug of the shirt, which was _properly _tucked inside the lining of his trousers. Properly.  
God, what an annoying word.

"Have you even started looking?" asked Samael with that kind of pointed skepticism that Has Already Guessed.

"What's the hurry? It's months left."

"It is; and you can barely spell your own name in Latin letters."

"Can we keep this a practical lesson?" he said, catching himself a hairbreadth from snapping rather than asking.

He needed practice. Chopsticks weren't used in Italy. You weren't allowed to lift your plate and bring it closer to your mouth, either.

Samael had decided to put the kitchen in junction with the grand dining hall, the one with not one but _three _carved stone hearths and an equal number  
of crystal chandeliers lighting the long table. The demon took the head seat, of course, dressed in something that could only be – of all idiotic things he  
owned – a noodle-themed suit. Shiro found himself placed at his right side, with the remaining fifty-or-so seats awkwardly void of occupants.

"If you wish. Did you know Italian TV is considering airing _Grendizer_ once the production is finished?" he picked up effortlessly while fastening the napkin  
in his shirt collar. "I do hope they air it with subtitles. Dubbing is an unforgivable atrocity", he concluded with delicate repulsion. "Even more so when the  
West equates anime with children's cartoons and treats it like second class productions. No thought whatsoever in the assigning of voice acting roles. You  
should hear the German dubs – goodness, they make my beard hairs curl!"

* * *

The appetizer was quickly finished, and invited the _primo_ onto the table: the dreaded spaghetti, with tomato sauce, arugula, and shaved Pecorino cheese.  
Shiro watched his plate as if the food would attack if he tried to eat it. It was noodles, basically. He knew how to eat noodles. Sadly, knife and fork had  
very little in common with chopsticks.

"What are you doing, you barbarian?"

"_Eating, if I didn't have to do it by some dumb rules of etiquette._" He had barely even started cutting it, and Samael was already aghast at his table  
manners. "_Tch…_"

"Put away that knife: the proper way to eat spaghetti is with the fork."

"Only the fork?" How? Was he playing some dumb prank again? Teaching him wrong just to make him laughing stock in Ita- "That… is just wrong."

"It's ingenious~" And with those words, he scooped up spaghetti with his fork and wound it up, like on a spindle, with a few expert flicks of his fingers and  
wrist. "Mmh~ Perfectly cooked this time. Pity the same can't be said of the sauce."

When you disconnect enough from yourself, from the world, you can feel how you start… drifting. Fading, like an old photograph, until you move through  
the picture like a ghost, and everything passes right through you without making contact. You might remember how it felt to slide your fingertips over oiled  
wood… but you won't feel it. All you feel is a surreal sensation of undulating between reality and dream, withdrawing bit by bit until your head is a locked  
room filled with still air and cut connections.

When Samael spoke, the air moved. Connections reformed. Sparks were struck.

The glass bowl cracked.

"You won't have to eat it once I'm in Rome", he muttered harshly, trying to cool the simmering irritation before it could build up to anger.

"I pity whoever will."

Bullshit. He wouldn't know pity if it hit him in the face with-

"_Calm down._" Calm down, because fish outside the bowl were easy prey. "Fine, I'm a bad cook. I'm more worried about the Scrutinies", Shiro posited the  
third time the spaghetti slipped and unwound from his fork. "I know it's just more of the same self-development and spiritual maturation thing, but I'm not  
sure I can fake convincing belief that some guy really could instant-clone fish. Or make blind men see by rubbing a handful of spit and mud in their eyes. I  
get the symbolism, but… I don't understand religious people. To believe that literally, you need a few screws missing."

"Some of them would say the same of you, for not believing", Samael snickered. "Religion requires faith, not proof; and faith is to trust with all your heart  
in that which your brain cannot prove through any of your senses. That said, legends are fashioned from a measure of truth, if that knowledge helps your  
acting", he continued, swirling his fork in slow, pensive circles over his plate. "There have been humans with gifts out of the ordinary, although few and far  
between in time. No real sons of God, mind you: just poor souls unfortunate enough to be born different. Soothsayers, healers and miracle-workers, all  
forced to explain their gifts in some way that made them less frightful." A single straw of spaghetti rose up to the movements of his fork, like a snake  
charmed by a flute. Samael cocked his head and glanced at him with a lazy smile. "Your own ability to synchronize with demons might have seen you  
counted among them, had you been born in an age when people were more inclined to believe in the supernatural."

"And then I would've been hung for wizardry", he retorted dryly, and gracelessly shoved a bundle of spaghetti into his mouth before it fell apart.

"As many of them were", he confirmed flippantly. "Although the penalty for wizards was generally death by stoning in Christian territories."

"Lovely. And they just had this kind of 'thing', ability or whatever, from birth? For no reason?"

"Just like you~" he smiled wide and winked, and sipped his wine without a care in the world.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Dear Guest**  
I think I can live with that. =P

**Dear gecko (is that **_**gecko-samedi**_** for "full name"? Yeah, I remember almost all names of people who read my stories. ^_^')**  
At first I thought you were _the _Gecko, my good friend, but then I realised you just happen to use the same name. ^.^ You never review? I'm honoured  
to be an exception, then! Reviewing is a very easy way to make somebody somewhere in the world very happy, though – if you ever feel you need to boost  
your karma quickly. ;P And on that note: thank you for the motivational fuel. I need that from time to time, when I feel like I can't even accomplish getting  
out of bed in the morning. x') I hope you'll still find TEotB enjoyable in the future, too.

[I remember you once told us you were writing a book?  
if it is in anyway written similare like this, it's going to be an awesome book 8D]  
- Ah, that book. I suppose it's similar in some ways, and different in others. I was in my teens when I wrote it, so if I go back and look at it now I might  
want to rewrite most of it… But it's been good for writing practice, at least. =)

**Dear Dare mo**  
The lazy people are the ones who lead human civilization towards new frontiers. I'll leave the note in TEotB's first arc so you can keep being lazy. ;)

["more on this in Rome", "more on this in Rome","more on this in Rome", you! sadistic!... If I try, try, and get to create an account, you will tell me?! 3]  
- … actually, I _might _do that, because if you got an account it would shorten my author notes considerably. x'D

[concerning the final chapter of TEotB 4: Paradiso… I have the certainty that this final chapter will make me cry until i've no more tears. So, I want you to  
know i will be there to demand an alternative end, where Shiro doesnt die or he die but has a post-mortem dialogue with Mephisto (Like the one Shiro has  
with Kuro in the OVA). Not a melancholy dialogue, but a dialogue that makes me say "Wom, this is a GREAT end, for a masterpiece". Haha, don't feel  
pressed! :3]  
- Is that a challenge? It's accepted, my good sir. ;)

[Ah, another question: tail is very important for a demon, and is because it's important that they always hide their tail. But Ryuuji's mom cut his tail when  
he was a baby,. Then, is Ryuuji weaker than a standard hanyou?]  
- I think he's on par with other hanyous in terms of raw strength. In my imagination, losing a limb such as a tail would be more of a motor impairment:  
the loss of his tail is the reason he's clumsy and not-in-tune-with-where-his-body-is-and-what-it-does.

[Angels and demons are like slugs?! Oh, now i understand why many cultures use salt in the rituals of purification. xD ( I doubt that a circle of salt was  
sufficient to keep out Mephisto.)  
Samael is in the body of a male, isn't he? Where he hidden his second "feet", I wonder?]  
- That is brilliant! Now it's clear to me too, the salt thing. x) As for where his second "foot" is, I chose that chapter's title for a reason. My brother and I  
have running jokes about _Bible Black_ and its abundance of futanari. (Don't question my brother's innocence, thank you.)

[Mephisto has his curl, Amaimon his cone /broccoli...why demon-Shiro don't have any weird protuberance on his head? or that is something that only the  
members of Royal Demon Family have?]  
- Go to deviantArt. Search for a deviation titled "Satan's Kids" by _narutolover6219_. That doesn't answer your question at all, but it's fun. Now, to answer  
your question: demon-Shiro normally cuts off his weird hair protuberance, because other demons made fun of him for always having a question mark  
hovering over his head. =3 (Yep, I made this up on the spot.)


	71. 123: Don't worry

**A/N:** **I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

"Fujimoto-kun, don't overexert yourself. You already have a good sense of how much strain your body can take."

Gokuro-sensei was worried that Shiro overdid his training. Shiro wasn't.

"Don't worry, sensei. I need this."

Because he needed to punch _something_. Even if it was just a sand bag.


	72. 124: Flawed but functional

**A/N: **Yes, I'm slower at updating... sorry... x')

**I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.**

* * *

December came, same as all the months before it, except for two things.

One was that Shiro would help with the preparations for a Catholic Christmas in the community, which spanned twelve days from the 25th of December to  
the 6th of January. The other was a letter, tucked in a cheap envelope with ballpoint-pen kanji that were painfully familiar.

Days passed. Endless cycles of sleeping and waking until the two blurred in pointless monochrome. There were reports he had to write and homework he had  
to do, missions to go on and community work with raising alms for the poor. There were a zillion things he had to do, all more urgent than opening that  
letter. It was when he caught himself considering if he should ask Ukobach for extra cooking lessons that he admitted how pathetic he was.

Sooner or later, somebody would have told her some version of what had happened. Sooner or later, he would have to face her. Sooner had passed, later  
had come, and there was only one thing to do.

Outwit his doubts, feint to the side, and make a dash for the letter before they realised what was happening.

_Hi Fuji_

Shiro inhaled deeply. As long as he didn't read past the first line of kanji, he was fine. As long as he didn't know what the rest of the letter said, he still had  
hope. And fear. And uncertainty.

_Stop being an idiot and read already. You've probably been leaving this around for days anyway, thinking I'm mad at you.  
_  
Touché.

_Shizzy told me about the host-thing. Sen-chan told me the rest of the story. I swear I'll have my shahrokh bite off their balls if I meet one of those stinking  
Yaonaru on my way back. Yeah, I'm heading back to True Cross Town: figured you'd be down in the dumps from this whole thing. I figured you'd be scared  
what I thought of you, too, so I sent this letter a few weeks in advance in case you leave it on your desk till you think it won't bite you. I just hope you read  
it before I come the 26th._

The calendar by the window set today's date to the 23rd. The stamp on the envelope said December 6th. Had he really left that letter on his desk for two  
weeks already…?

_Shizzy doesn't know I'm coming. I only talked with him through a payphone once, after I got his letter, but he made it pretty damn clear he will beat the  
living daylights out of you if he finds out we've been seeing each other again. I wonder if he could, though. Is it true you broke his arm?_

Shiro's jaws clicked together. He hadn't _meant _to… but there were many things he had never meant to do.  
_  
I'll be waiting for you at Minamoto Hostel in the Northern parts of True Cross Town. You're still allowed to leave school, right? I hear there's been talk of  
making the boarding school rules stricter, so that you can't leave the premises at all without permission. Is school really so bad they have to lock their  
students up to prevent them from running off? If Pheles has decided to do that, call the number on the back of the letter (that's for my lodgings) and I'll  
do a little break-in instead. I'm sure he won't mind. =)_

_Love you,_

_Kasumi  
_

* * *

Isn't it strange? The more you know you _shouldn't _do something, the more do you want to do _precisely_ that.

Shiro wondered briefly if all humans had the same defect, or if he once again was the lucky special one. Maybe they did, and just were better at resisting the  
impulse than he was. Maybe he just wasn't as good at it as he should have been.  
_  
Maybe the Lord has decided to test you?_ suggested the part of his mind that had been too well conditioned to play the charade of budding believer. Shiro  
hadn't particularly liked god's trials. He had tested Job because a demon taunted him into it. Like a bet. Who would trust a god that bet with demons?

Northern True Cross crunched under his feet. Frail ice coated the asphalt, glass between frames of massive concrete buildings. Heaters sighed heavily from  
the towering façades of apartment balconies. Rusty breaths of white steam against the yawning dusk. Winter was coming. The air smelled of frost, of clear  
nights and cold stars: what little you could see of them. There were barely any stars visible above True Cross Town – nothing like the sky above Hakkoda  
Mountains, where he'd passed his Esquire exam a lifetime ago. With his friends.

A stray dog – some gangly, brown crossbreed with perky ears – seemed to consider for a moment if it was worth a shot to beg him for food. It looked at  
him from across the small street, almost golden in the lamplight. Looked and looked, and eventually decided it had better things to do and trotted off.

Maybe there was another dog, somewhere. Watching what he did. Planning what he would do.

Maybe.

Shiro shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders drawn up to make a little less cold air filter in through his jacket. There was a screaming lack of  
plan in what he was currently doing, and his feet weren't the least interested in stopping to let him think of one. He didn't want to give her false hopes. He  
would be leaving by summer, dammit. There was no telling if it would be months or years before he came back. If he did come back.

"_I might never see her again._" Good job, brain. Good job with a plan. Excellent work with this whole thing.

Acting on emotion again. Neglecting reason. Doing things he shouldn't do. That had worked so great last time, right?

"_This will be different_", he told himself. He was just going to see her. No emotion involved. Just see her. "_Completely disregarding that going to see her in  
itself is me acting on an emotional wish_", he scoffed.

There's a special word for things you shouldn't do, but really, really want to do. That word is "temptation".

Considering his situation, Shiro should have been better at resisting those.

* * *

Kasumi didn't even give him the time to get his shoes off in the hostel reception; she was around his neck in a matter of seconds, a flurry of mauve and black  
and green and…

"No break-in, then? Ya'll have ta compensate me fer the fun I miss, Fuji", she hummed in his ear. She was so warm, after the December evening. The blue  
cardigan felt handmade against his chilled fingers, with the occasional bump and knot. Cheap yarn, probably. She smelled of a fresh bath that didn't quite  
wash away the smell of long days on winter roads. She was oxygen. She was sunshine.

God, she was perfect.

"I've missed you, too", he murmured into her hair. "How's life been treating you?"

"The usual. Ya know. Pebbles an' puddles, an' some road in between." Kasumi slipped out of the embrace, hands on his shoulders, and scrutinised him at  
arm's length. The way you do with little children when you estimate how much they've grown since last time. She made a proper show of it, eyeing him up  
and down, furrowing her brow and pursing her lips as best she could. "Hmm, nope. Ya look exactly the same as I left ya. Gotta say imma bit disappointed  
with ya, Fuji. I always pictured Satan's vessel somebody big an' buff an' fierce", she winked, with scars sagging one half of her crooked grin.

"Yeah, you'd think there were many better alternatives." The smile didn't reach his eyes, he felt that; and saw it reflected in Kasumi's face.

"Hmm…" Her features turned sceptical, and her fingers squeezed his shoulders and upper arms for further scrutiny. "Ya might qualify as buff, though. If I'm  
feelin' generous."

That Shiro was slow and missing steps in the pair-dance known as bantering was partly because the joy that wit draws fuel from was muted, but partly it  
was… because something was off with Kasumi. And it wasn't the multi-coloured, haphazard chimera of a scarf that covered part of her face.

"Have you…" Part of his mind informed him that this could be a sensitive topic, especially for women, and that he might get in trouble for it. "…lost weight?"

She seemed a little surprised, but that was all.

"Nah, just misplaced it. It'll turn up sooner or later." She patted his shoulder dismissively, like a judge requesting the discussion to return to the topic. "I'm  
more interested in hearin' what you've been up to lately. Sen an' Shizzy told me two pretty different stories, so I'm lookin' fer a first-hand account o' what  
really happened. So~ ya feelin' up fer a walk?"

"It's cold, but sure."

"Already thought o' that~" she confided with a shrewd grin that indicated she had very much thought of this. Skipping away to the reception counter, she  
reached down for something that had been hidden behind a stack of old newspapers. "Merry Christmas!"

The present she thrust at him was wrapped in the same kind of colour-splashed patchwork knitting as her scarf, and tied together neatly with a red ribbon.  
Christmas present. _Christmas present. _Shit…

"Really, you shouldn't have…" he began, but Kasumi would have none of that.

"Come on – it's the kind'a gift ya leave ta mould in a drawer anyway. Open it!"

He was way too occupied with trying to come up with something to give her in return to coordinate his fingers. Something a little more creative than food  
would be nice. He'd cooked enough food for Samael, and he had cooked for Kasumi already, but what else could he give her that she had use for?

The ribbon loosened, and the fabric unwound to reveal… nothing. The wrapping was all there was in-

"Oh."

"I had some yarn left after I made me' own, so I figured I might as well", Kasumi smiled at the face he made. "It's all scraps from mom's handicraft centre,  
that's why it looks so unique."

"It looks very unique", he agreed, a smile of his own growing as he tried and failed to find two patches that were the same in colour and knitting. He'd never  
even known there were this many ways of knitting…

"Wait till ya wash it", she chortled, and tossed the deformed end of her own scarf over her shoulder to button up her jacket. "Then it'll look uniquer."

"Shouldn't that be 'more unique'?"

"Not fer this scarf." Her shoes were on as if they'd jumped onto her feet, and just as swiftly she hooked her arm in his. "It's so unique it has its own grammar."

* * *

Don't ever underestimate the value of a night walk for speaking. Shiro told the story to her, to the humming street lamps, to the rusted garage doors, to  
the bicycles that slept locked-and-chained under green blankets of tarpaulin. There were so many things in the world, suddenly. So many things that had  
blurred and faded when he had; things that gained shape, gained _meaning, _other than the listless name tags he was used to assigning them. Time lost track  
of them on the small, winding alleys of Northern True Cross; demons didn't. Weak but curious, they trailed them over silent roof tiles and bumpy cobblestone  
like shadows in the corner of one's eye.

"And that's how it happened", he concluded, ages later, when the sparse moonlight the sky offered had been covered in clouds.

"Fucking Yaonarus!" she hissed out between her teeth.

He had never seen Kasumi truly angry; but like the demons that hide in the corner of one's eye, glimpses let you imagine the consequences when she was.

"They 'ad no damn business with you – seeing conspiracies everywhere, paranoid fuckin' assholes!"

"No objections there."

"An' I can bet my sweet ass they're the ones who've been rilin' people up 'gainst the Order", she continued, eyebrows furrowed in thought as she brushed  
the scarf back and forth against her lower lip. "Pheles 's already aware of it, I'm guessin'?"

"I've been too busy lately to spend much time with him." Which was entirely deliberate, but there were gains to be made from holding up a friendly façade:  
less prying to worm around, less questions to answer with lies.

"It's that Deep Keep thing the Yaonarus wanted ya outta the game for. There's people usin' it ta argue that Pheles ain't such a useful guard dog as 'e should  
be; that 'e might have other objectives than serving the Order."

"What people?" People related to Tanzi? To Yaonaru? Or some other enemy of Samael's?

It would be a pleasure to see that bastard hunted – a pure, cruel, unadulterated pleasure. On the downside, anyone suspected of collaborating with Samael  
would also be hunted; any element that threatened to hinder him might also threaten to hinder Shiro's mission in Rome. The Yaonarus had already made it  
perfectly clear that they would bestow that favour. And the Yaonarus had connections.

"Wish I knew. Just caught some leaves in the wind, don't know which tree they came from. There's a lot o' hush 'round it." Kasumi muted a cough in the  
crook of her arm. "Partly 'cause they don't wanna oppose the Order openly, but I'm guessin' it's also partly 'cause some o' them might be _in _the Order", she  
said with a knowing glance at him. "Easier ta gather dirt on Pheles if they keep that position, I'm thinkin'. The Yaonarus would play it that way, at least."  
She drew a deep breath, the kind that isn't for getting air but for cooling heat. "How does it work, then? How d'ya deal with, ya know, having this demon  
compatibility thing?"

"Well, simply put: if I lose control, they take control. So I'm blocking off emotion to prevent that." Pause. "It makes me a bit detached, as you might have  
noticed."

"I noticed somethin' like that, yeah. That's gotta suck."

"…hard to tell, really. It doesn't feel good _or_ bad: just monotonous." No, emotional sensory deprivation didn't feel bad. It just slowly ate you from inside.  
"Then of course there's times when I would like to just let go and get swept along. Like when I get angry." Like just about every time he had to put up with  
Samael's 'practical' lessons. "Those times it's hard to stay in control and keep my distance to it."

"Now I get why ya blamed yerself fe' the accident", she murmured softly: a serious face that lasted only a second before it lit up with mischief. "m'I too much  
of a temptation, heeh~? Can't keep yer emotions in check when I'm around~?"

Was she out of her mind?

…well, she had to be. Any girl who cared about her safety would be miles away from Satan's vessel.

"You're not exactly making it _easy_", Shiro pointed out, smile going crooked on his lips as he shook his head. "I don't get how you think when you're still  
around me, but I'm glad you are."

"Well, I figured Satan needs some competition – can't let 'im have ya all ta himself", she chuckled brightly. "Jokes aside, though: people treating ya bad fer  
this?"

There was a tiny speck of warmth that embedded itself in his chest: the way she said it made him think of a big sister asking her brother if he was bullied in  
school, with the silent promise of reprisal attached if he were.

"Most avoid me, that's all." She didn't need to know about the anonymous notes that found their way into his mail compartment every now and then. "Not  
Midori- and Sen-chan, of course, but apart from them it's like living in a bubble. Not in a bad way", he added thoughtlessly in response to the pained look  
in Kasumi's eyes. "I mean… When you block off emotion the way I do, you grow indifferent after a while – dulled, sort of. You kinda…" He brushed off an  
especially persistent coal tar. "Grow used to it. Humans can adapt to almost any conditions." That's how they survived.

"And ye're okay with that?" she asked: the kind of pointed question that is rhetorical, with its answer already determined by the tone.

"I can't stop blocking and I can't stop being targeted by demons: growing used to it is the only thing I can do." Once upon a time, he might have found it  
disturbing how easily such words left his lips: now, there was only indifference. "It's good that people avoid me, in a way", he continued, fingers toying with  
the lighter in his trouser pocket. "Makes it less of a risk that I hurt them."

"Ya'd like me ta stay away from ya, too, is that it?"

Kasumi had stopped on the sidewalk, nailed to the ground like a guard tower, and aimed at him the kind of dogged glare you only find in small children who  
do _not _want to go. She wasn't angry, not yet; but she would consider it very soon. Her eyes were black fire, her lips a sharp line of defiance, and her arms  
were crossed harshly over a chest that wasn't as voluptuous as it used to be.

"I was thinking about it when I walked to Minamoto", he confessed flatly. "But I couldn't stop my feet from moving."

"An' ya friends?" she said, not budging a centimetre. "Ya want them ta turn their backs on ya?"

"No, I just-"

He didn't get farther than that: Kasumi's hand squashed the cross on his glasses cord into his cheek as she slapped him across the face. Not to hurt. She  
didn't hit him to hurt, so her face said. She hit to startle.

"Quit that", she groaned, with the grimace of one who finds herself in charge of a baby that has discovered that food is more fun to play with than eat. "That  
'I'm just gonna roll over an' take it' attitude; it's unmanly."

"Unmanly…?" Nope, he was still preoccupied with the fact that she had slapped him.

"Unmanly", she confirmed brusquely. "Just givin' up an' not caring anymore: it friggin' pisses me off, people who are like that. Ya wanna change things, ya  
fight fer it. If ya sit on yer lazy ass thinking 'bout stuff ya wanna do but never do it, what's the point? Even if ya fail, ya _try_." She tugged his scarf sharply,  
pushed the word into his face. "If ya don't try, ya'll spend the rest o' yer life wondering what could'a been if ya had. Ya don't wanna lose yer friends? Then  
make a goddamn effort ta reach through that bubble, 'cause _they're_ tryin' ta reach through it fe' _you_." Her eyebrows rose, two dark streaks underlining her  
statement. "Yeah, _you_ – even if ya think ye're dangerous an' dickish, Midori an' Sen-chan 're still makin' an effort ta keep contact with ya, ye stupid oaf."  
She tugged his scarf again, and pressed her lips onto his; soft and hot and… delicious…

Emotional indifference, sure: Shiro still had the body of a nineteen-year-old male. If it wanted to rule against his brain's decisions, it would. If it wanted to  
kiss back and pull her small body close, it would. If it wanted to heat up to smooth curves and the smell of road dust, and burn holes in his mental focus, it  
would.

"_I shouldn't, not like this._" But it had been so long, and her tongue was wet silk against his. "_It's just like last time, dammit, I can't put her at risk again!_"  
But his pulse was already panting fervently for more; as were the demons waiting in the shadows. "_This is bad, it's night, it's way out, I shouldn't do this!_"  
But it felt so good to give in.

That's what demons did: give in to temptation, not caring what was destroyed because of it. That's what imprint did, to those humans who had it.

"Idiot", Kasumi smiled fondly, when at long last he made himself break the kiss. "What good is blaming ye'self gonna do, hm? What's gonna change if ya  
make ye'self miserable? We'll be misreable too, that's what." She bumped her forehead gently against his, arms still around his neck where she'd left them.  
"We care about ya, idiot."

"I care about you, too", he murmured, sending a pale white cloud into the narrow gap between their faces. "It's just that no matter what I do, it turns out wrong."

"Didn't turn out wrong now, did it? I kissed ya, an' no demons jumped outta the shadows."

"They could have: I had a hard time not… losing control."

"But ya didn't. Practise makes perfect, don'tcha know? Keep practising, keep trying, an' you'll be outta that bubble before ya know it", Kasumi smiled  
wickedly. "An' stop blaming ye'self so much – 's gonna give ya grey hairs." She tugged gently at the hair in his neck.

"Yeah. Bit too late for the hair, though", he smiled softly.

He didn't deserve her. Not by a long shot. But love is blind, and very pushy.

* * *

A cold, light rain came in when they picked their way slowly back to her hostel. Kasumi showed him how to wind the scarf to cover both head and neck, but  
not without first being intensely fascinated with his now naturally white hair.

"Really? It turned white, just like that? Why?"

"Came part and parcel with the Satan's vessel kit. I don't know why", he lied smoothly, and tossed in a shrug for good measure; then he had to catch the  
end of his scarf and keep it from flopping onto the wet asphalt.

"…'s it the same kind o' thing that turned yer eyes red?"

"They're not red, they're maroon."

"They _were _maroon", she observed. "Every time we pass by a street lamp they flash red."

Shiro knew that. Moreover, _Kita _knew that. He figured he could still get tinted glasses and blame some obscure eye-disease for hypersensitivity, but it  
wouldn't fool those who were already suspicious – which was just about everyone.

"Alright, they might've changed colour a little", he admitted under his breath. "But it's only in a certain light."

"It doesn't look bad, ya know." Kasumi was grinning at him, he could tell by the shape of her eyes, but from that side he could only see a feeble twitching in  
her cheek. "Makes ya look like one o' those 'mysterious strangers' in crappy romance novels."

"…I'd consider that pretty bad."

"Alright, that is pretty bad", she admitted with a chortle. "I don't mind it, that's what I'm sayin': whateva' colour ya have on eyes an' hair, ye're still you.  
While we're on the subject, Sen-chan's letter said Midori-chan claimed that Pheles knew stuff about these changes that're happenin' to ya, but that 'e denied  
it", Kasumi continued and wound her scarf up around her mouth. "She seemed ta think he'd done something to ya ta _make _ya change."

"He's the one who examined me; he hasn't done anything to me. I'll admit he's fascinated by all this, but he doesn't know any more about 'why' than I do."

Sometime, long ago, had he detested the thought of living a life of pretence and lies? Good work with that.

"No, I figured as much. The thing with half-demons in general an' Midori-chan in pe'ticular is that they're very protective o' the ones they consider their flock."

They rounded the corner and left the alleys for the main road, with the chill wind that flushed rain in their faces. December was in a bad mood; and the  
scarf may look unique, but it really did wonders for comfort.

"When this all happened to ya, I'm thinkin' her instinct ta protect 'er flock led 'er ta seek somebody ta blame, an' Pheles was a handy option", Kasumi  
continued. "'s too bad, really. I can only hope she sorts it out fer he'self. Talkin' it over some with Sen-chan might help, otherwise. So, did that examination  
give any explanation?" she muttered into her scarf, head bent down against the wind.

"All we could gather was that I have some sort of extreme resilience, physically and mentally", he replied, squinting ahead above the rims of his very wet  
and very useless glasses. "And that it's possible to develop it further. I really didn't mean to break your brother's arm back then. I'd been testing what kind  
of effect the resilience had on muscle fibre, and it turns out I can get freakishly strong with the right training. All people get strong by training, I know, but  
I get _really _strong; on par with a demon." Which was why Midori kept rejecting his explanations: no human gets that kind of strength unless a demon has  
a hand in it. "That's kind of classified, though", he added, meeting her gaze sideways in quiet understanding. "Practical purposes, since we can't explain how  
I got so strong and don't wanna get me into more shit with the Order. The official version is that I had one hell of an adrenaline rush. It works, 'cause my  
body doesn't really look like it'd have demonic strength."

"Oh, I don't know 'bout that", Kasumi sniggered impishly, and sent him that special Look only women can generate. "I sure _felt _muscle."

"Careful with my control, you little demon", he smiled into his scarf. "But yeah, in the end none's the wiser in this. Mephisto mentioned there'd been other  
kinds of deviations before me; prophets and healers and other stuff you can hear of in legends. It's something that just happens, apparently. Like  
spontaneous mutations or something."

"An' of all things, ya mutated ta be a good vessel fer demons? Ye're one unlucky bastard, ya know that?" Kasumi chuckled humourlessly beside him. "I  
should'a made you a charm ta ward off bad fortune instead of a scarf."

"Warding off a bad cold is good enough for me. Shizuku-san offered to make me a charm that warded off stupidity once: can you make me one of those?"

Kasumi didn't reply, only laughed and slung her arm around his waist. He returned the gesture, then fumbled a while to synchronise their pace before he  
gave up. His legs were too much taller than hers. Her feet seemed like cat's paws next to his. All of her was so very much shorter and smaller than he  
was – and thinner. He'd felt that, even through the layers of winter clothes when they embraced for the kiss, and even if she joked about it…

"Just, wondering… have you been eating properly?" he asked cautiously.

There was a pause, the kind of pause where one debates whether to joke away an issue or address it, that made Shiro's suspicions squirm in his chest.

"Don't worry, Fuji", she replied. Off tune. Off beat. And his suspicions squirmed some more. "I've been gettin' fewer jobs, sure, but I can make ends meet  
even if customers are scared o' me."

Make ends meet, and simultaneously save up money to go to True Cross to visit him…?

"Just means I gotta work harder an' show I got the skills even if I haven't got the looks", she chuckled softly. "There's always pebbles an' puddles on the road."

"You should've told me", he murmured.

"An' given ya one more thing ta blame ye'self fer? Nah. I carry my load, you carry yours." Seeing the look on his features, she elbowed him gently in the  
side. "Don't make such a face, Fuji. I'm used ta beein' poor, trust me – we used ta have six mouths ta feed in my family."

Shiro opened his mouth to object, but stopped before he could make a jackass out of himself. What mandate did he have to complain if she kept her  
problems from him, with his own record? None. Whatsoever none, and Shizuku's words drifted back to him from a stuffy hospital corridor: _nothing will  
bother her as long as she's got feet to walk on and hands to work with_.

Yes, she was mad. A beautiful kind of madness. Humans can adapt to almost any conditions, wasn't that what he'd just said? And wasn't that what she did?

What they both did.

"I suppose there's some sort of logic to it", he admitted as they turned the corner onto the street where Minamoto hostel lay. "At least let me pay your stay  
while you're here."

* * *

Minamoto was an unenthusiastic three story building, that seemed to pull its shoulders in and make itself small enough to fit between the neighbouring  
houses. It was the kind of hostel that is frequented by backpackers from all over the world, all intent on leaving their personal mark on the establishment  
in the form of stickers, doodles, paper folding creations and, on one occasion in the shared kitchen, a vehicle registration plate.

For two days the cost was just up above 10 000 yen. That yielded a room barely large enough for the bed, table and chair that lived there. The carpeting  
bore the scent of too many former inhabitants, and hand-painted walls that tried to peel the smell off with the paint. One naked window glanced out over  
the neighbouring house's backyard, which looked more like a dump for neglected garden furniture.

"Pardon?"

Shiro turned away from the glum view to see Kasumi unwinding her chimera scarf. He had proposed that he could add in the money for a better room, but  
she would have none of it.

"Ye're the one paying fe' the room; shouldn't ya stay an' sleep in it…?" she suggested, sauntering up to him with that telltale look of impishness about her  
that used to make her lips look so inviting. "Or get a little… warmth… before ya go back out inta the cold…?"

Her hands ran up the chest of his jacket, and the warmth felt good indeed.

"Catholics don't approve of sex outside marriage", the reply came flying out of his mouth. "Which is too bad."

Kasumi's look changed to one of bemusement.

"Since when did ya start carin' 'bout what Catholics think?"

"Since I applied to convert. It slipped my mind earlier", he excused, scratching the back of his neck. "I gotta prove my spiritual fortitude to the Order, so  
following the 'right path' is a plus. If they think I can't handle defences on my own they might lock me up in some demon-safe dungeon."

With a sigh, the last look of impishness left Kasumi's scarred face.

"Ya poor unfortunate basterd." She arranged his scarf a bit more snugly, taking care to tuck it inside his jacket. "Neva' stop tryin', okay?" She rose up on  
the balls of her feet and kissed him, gently; not for passion, not for teasing, but for love. "No matter how many pebbles an' puddles there are along the  
way, ya neva' stop."  
_  
you might never see her again_

Shiro kissed her back, touched her lips with wishes and farewells that would never be set in words.

"Never", he promised.

* * *

Regret is the graveyard of dreams and wishes, either murdered by recklessness or choked to death by fear. Fear of failure. Fear of consequences. Fear of  
getting hurt, or hurting others.

Regret commands an army of ghosts, whispering the haunting words "what if" from the sediments of memory. Things that could have been. Things that never  
were. Attempts made that shouldn't have been, and ones that should and weren't.

_if ya don't try, ya'll spend the rest o' yer life wondering what could'a been if ya had  
_  
The rest of the walk through True Cross. The rest of the night. The rest of his life.

He might never see Kasumi again. He shouldn't give her false hopes. He shouldn't-

He might never see her again, dammit. He might never see her again, and the last thing he would give her was what? A lone stay in a shabby hostel room a  
cold December night? Excused by a religion he didn't even believe in?

* * *

Kasumi had never gone to school or had any formal training in exorcism. What she did have was knowledge etched in skin and mind, experience spelled in  
scars and chants that could fill as many books as the ones that were studied in True Cross Academy's cram school. When she heard knocking on the window,  
the staff was in her hand and a summoning chant on her lips the moment she was out of the bed.

No human knocks on a window set on the second floor.

Winter night had painted the window black, and in the quiet came the rapping noise again. With the tip of her walking staff, Kasumi turned the window latch  
from a distance and shoved the window outwards with a rough-

"Ow!"

"…Shiro?"

She groped the wall for a switch, and the faded light illuminated a tuft of stark white hair level with the windowsill, where four equally white fingers clutched  
hold.

"I know the window's supposed ta be romantic an' all, Mr. Mysterious Red-eyed Stranger, but don't ya think it's a li'l bit impractical?" Kasumi tossed her staff  
on the bed and stalked over to the window, one hand on its frame and one hand held out to Shiro.

"I'm romantically challenged, can't help it. Here you go", he grunted; and instead of taking her hand, he put something in it. "Merry Christmas." He rubbed at  
the red mark the window had left in his forehead, before he set to climbing in. "I hope there's enough to make a proper scarf."

A craftsman knows the world through her fingers. Kasumi's knew birch and linden, cotton and wool, and all the regional techniques of knitting and carving  
from South to North; and when she got the spindle in her hand, she thrust it up towards the dim lamp for examination. The thread glimmered faintly  
iridiscent, like mother of pearl in starlight.

Suffice to say, Shiro was pleased with her reaction as he climbed in and closed the window behind him.

"Wow. What is…?" She turned it over and over in her hands, plucked and stroked and marveled. "I've never felt anything so smooth! What _is_ this?"

"Spider silk from a jorougumo."

Only then did she tear her eyes from the spindle, and looked at him like he'd just said he pulled it out of his ass.

"And ye're tellin' me ta make this into a _scarf_? It's the kind o' thing ya embroider the emperor's weddin' gown with."

Really? Shiro hadn't thought much about it since he won it at Hyakki Yagyou. He knew nothing of materials and crafts, and his artistic skill didn't extend  
beyond folding origami cranes.

"It's yours, so do what you want with it", he replied with a shrug.

…angelic. With her hair let out for the night and a threadbare blue nightgown to go with that beaming smile, she was angelic. With the faded, yellow  
lamp-light for aureole and the flaking walls for frame, she was an odd sort of angel. But she was too beautiful for this world.

"That's a great Christmas present, Fuji. Thank you."

"Actually, that's not the Christmas present…" he said softly, and peeled the blue fabric off her shoulder. She shuddered from the cold of his fingers, but  
leaned into the kisses he planted on her neck.

"Weren't Catholics against sex outside marriage?" she murmured to his ear. Not that she would mind; she had already disposed of his jacket and was making  
good work of his shirt buttons.

"I'm not baptised Catholic till April; what they don't know won't hurt them. Or me."

She chuckled softly at that, and her hands grew more eager to map the muscles training had given him.

"We hav'ta be quiet, then."

"Hmmm I might make that hard for you…" he murmured back, and traced the nightgown over every curve as it slid off onto the carpenting.

"That's my line, Fuji", she teased, and slipped her hand down past his unbuckled belt.

* * *

Regret is a graveyard. Temptation is a pit.

The challenge for every man and woman is to balance on the narrow strip of earth between those.

* * *

**A/N: HUGE thanks** to all the wonderful people I met in Leipzig, for making my brief visit the wonderful adventure it was! And huge thanks to Lady Chance,  
who usually doesn't deign to make me company, but who showed me utmost kindness this past weekend (see link on profile page for further reference).


	73. 125: Perception

**A/N: I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.  
**

* * *

Habits have a tendency to come creeping without you even knowing it. In retrospect, Shiro didn't know _when _he had resigned to his fate as Satan's vessel.  
He just noticed how big the difference was, when he started to actively try and interact with people again. Broken connections are hard to fix. You can make  
them work, but there will always be splices visible, and the occasional static buzzing through the line.

The trial by fire would come in March, on Midori's day. She had been very clear on the point that it was her _day, _not her _birth_day; and everyone was invited  
to celebrate it, although nobody told Shizuku that Shiro was invited, too. The idea was, put simply, to make them talk to each other.

Because Shiro had promised that he would _try_.

* * *

"And your important homework…?"

There were more trials than getting Shizuku on speaking terms, and not all of them were confined to March.

"It's still a month left", Shiro enlightened as he dropped his schoolbag on a gaudy cushion.

The tinted window panes spilled rainbows of spring sun into the studiolo, and you could almost imagine how the light stuck in the thick, sweet smell that  
hung in the air. It was the time of year when you started waking up to birdsong again, green started to creep up between yesteryear's leaves again, and  
you were once again reminded how bothersome those small fruit flies can be, when they are literally everywhere and never leave you alone. A bit like  
Samael.

"Something tells me I will be hearing the same excuse on Holy Saturday", said demon remarked with a thin eyebrow arching upwards.

"_If you keep bitching about it, then yes._"

He pictured her in his mind for an instant. Breathed in her scarred smile, her tanned body, her hair spilled out over white sheets. Breathed in the jarring  
shadows of ribs and hip bones under her skin; oxygen for the fire that fuelled him.

Whatever it took. Whatever it took to ensure Kasumi didn't have to starve to come and visit him.

"I will pick one. I just haven't decided yet", he replied, setting his calm in solid determination.

* * *

It's not _what_ you say, but _how_ you say it.

It was something his mom used to say. She'd said it like the words contained some secret compartment he would one day find, with deep meaning hidden  
inside it. It had seemed suitably mysterious, back when he'd been doing his homework at the kitchen table under her supervision. He'd pictured it like passing  
notes between the benches in the classroom; like a message you could send that only select people would understand. Like a secret language.

Nothing like Italian.

His vocabulary was steadily growing; as was his vocabulary of words for everything he did wrong with it. Over the weeks, Shiro became silently grateful that  
he was learning Italian and not Greek, since he was quite sure that he would never be able to say a word like _anaptyxis_, even if Samael claimed he used that  
all the time.

"…che prendeva a calci la macchina e poi sfondava il vetro. Mentre trafficava con il freno a mano, il capolavoro si è concluso. End of dictation."

"I can't fucking write Italian", Shiro sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. There was the thin, hissing sound of the demon sliding his  
dictation over for scrutiny.

He _would_ do this, for Kasumi – if only his stupid brain could focus and get it right. He did his _damnedest_, practised writing until he ran out of paper and read  
until his eyes bled out of their sockets, but it was like he just couldn't grasp it. It had been the same with English. He'd settled for just passing that, thinking  
he wouldn't need to use English again. Italian he would use. Extensively. It would be his stepping stone to studies in Latin – or so they had intended, at least.

Shiro had been given books to read, _children's _books, and he still couldn't get the hang of it. He had been given drill exercises in writing Latin letters, and  
his handwriting still looked like an eight-year-old's. An eight-year-old with visual impairment. He made progress in speaking, sure: he could even pin the  
l:s at least 70% of the time, unless faced with tongue twisters like _altro_. He had no problem following spoken Italian, as long as it wasn't too fast-paced.  
The body language was nothing he cared to learn, no matter how important Samael seemed to think it was.

On the whole, Shiro could probably place an order at a restaurant, and pick his way through an average conversation. He was nowhere near reading Italian  
course literature and writing university papers.

"You had the same problem with English, I recall…" the demon mused, eyeing through the letters that stumbled awkwardly on each other's heels. "It looks  
to me like you're dyslectic."

"What are you on about?" he snorted. "I can read Japanese just fine. It's other languages that are the problem."

"That fits the description, actually." The demon twirled the ends of a gold-wrapped caramel between his fingers. The plastic bag on the table said W… e-r…  
ht… Imported goods for his fanciness' tastes, at any rate. "It's not unheard of that one whose native language uses a logographic writing system, like  
Japanese, can discover himself to be dyslectic when faced with an alphabetic one, such as the system English and Italian use. An unexpected obstacle, I  
do say." The golden caramel had shed the wrapping paper and was on its way to be eaten. "I could amend that; but then I would need something in return."

…there settled a brief, incredulous silence over the Renaissance studiolo, while Samael munched unperturbed on his sweets. Something in return? The  
bastard had the nerve to suggest yet another deal?

"If you knew how tantalizing that look is on your features", he snickered, turning the caramel slowly in his mouth. Taking his time. Savouring both looks and  
taste. "No need to make such a face: I did promise to do everything in my power to ensure your success, didn't I? I'm a man of my word", he spread his  
hands with a languid smile, "and I _will_ help you. I just can't do it for free."

"Can't just add another magic cross to my glasses cord, then? Or that was a one-time freebie to promote your services?" he retorted.

"There's quite the difference between a pair of glasses and a living, breathing human being, you know", he smiled. "Objects I can alter as I please; your  
glasses aren't part of your person, despite what your own opinion on that may be. This is no mere optical distortion we're discussing: this is inside your head.  
I would need to reach in and modify the nervous connections in your brain – alter your visual perception altogether – to give you the same conditions as  
everyone else. That", he raised a gloved finger to point out the importance of his words, "I can't do unless you", the finger tipped forward at Shiro, "surrender  
something of equal value. I will give you the most generous offer possible, I guarantee."

Shiro couldn't help but raise his eyebrows sceptically at the mention of "generous". Nonetheless, it was an offer circumstances forced him to consider. He had  
to be able to read and write to complete his mission: he could probably pull it off through sheer effort, but he was well acquainted with what a stressed  
schedule did to one's judgement and general functionality. It was a good offer…

…and the arrogant fuck offering it had risen out of his chair and sauntered over to Shiro's end of the small table, acting like it was a done deal already.

"What would something of equal value be?" he questioned, staring straight ahead and refusing to look up at Samael. "Auditory perception?"

"Would be, yes, but you need that as much as you need your visuals. If we consider what would be least detrimental for you to lose, I would say your  
perception of time."

Personal space is an alien concept to demons. Samael had assimilated that social custom perfectly, in public, but in private he saw no reason to respect  
people's personal spheres – or to leave their glasses strings alone. As if humans were just pieces of furniture, there for his convenience to fiddle with as  
he pleased. As if he owned them.

"_Well, doesn't he?_" The words were bitter on his tongue even if he didn't utter them. Bitter, cynical… and true.

"Such a sacrifice would make it hard for you to gauge how much time has passed between one moment and another, and you might have some difficulty  
recalling in which order events have occurred unless there is a clear cause-and-effect relation between them." The cross-shaped bead he'd played with slid  
from his fingers, back to dangling from Shiro's glasses. "You could call it dyslexia of temporal perception – nothing you can't compensate for with a  
wristwatch and a calendar."

"…and if you just slightly improve my ability to read and write, would I be just slightly worse at gauging time?"

"Always equal exchange, little lion."

For a brief moment, Shiro was fully occupied with imagining the sweet feeling of his fist connecting with the demon's temple.

"Right… Can we take it by degree? So I can see how big the difference is." Shiro breathed out and rose – and checked an impulse to flinch away from the  
fingers that threaded into his hair.

"Certainly~"

* * *

…it reminded him of when Samael had examined his hair, after the discovery that it had gone permanently white. The soft pressure, the cautious touch of  
claw-tips; bony fingers that almost held their breath, for fear of handling the delicate porcelain of his skull too roughly. Shiro let his eyes wander the walls  
of the tower room, search for cover behind intarsia doors and windows barricaded by weeping remnants of snow. Search for cover from that… _that_.

Yeah, it reminded him of that time his hair had gone white. Something in the touch of ten warm fingertips on temples and scalp that seemed to touch so  
much more.

His mom had been right. Secret language, passing messages. It's not what you say, but how you say it.

Samael had assured him that the brain had no sensory receptors of its own, that he wouldn't feel a thing; still, there was… something. A presence. A  
_closeness_. Something he felt outside the range of nerves and receptors. Outside the range of his will.

"_Shit. He'll notice. He'll notice for sure._"

It had been there a long time now. He hadn't noticed until summer holidays, but it must have been there ever since he'd gotten the imprint. Miraculously,  
Samael hadn't discovered it. Things could have been so much worse if he had.

"_And will be if he does_", he thought sardonically, and hoped he had arranged his features in a non-suspicious manner. Act natural. He should be good at that  
by now.

Eternity passed before Samael retracted his fingers. He hadn't noticed…? Or he thought Shiro was letting his guard down on purpose? Whatever. Act like  
nothing. Don't rouse suspicion.

A secret language only one of them was aware of. Messages sent with no words and infinite interpretations. It's not what you touch, but how you touch.

The demon slid the dictation back to him, still with no indication that he had noticed anything off. And Shiro could read it. He could _understand_ the sentences,  
without his eyes stuttering over words – and he saw clearly the places where he had turned the letter s backwards. He noticed a p where it should have  
been a q, and…

"There's a difference", he murmured, nodding in amazement as letters joined together in words before his eyes. "There's definitely a difference. Hand me that  
pen."

* * *

Shiro vividly remembered the day he got his first pair of glasses. It had been summer, and there had been an ice cream stand on the way that he had  
desperately pleaded his parents to stop at, so that maybe they'd forget the errand altogether. Grown-ups didn't do such things, though. They had promised  
he would get ice cream later, after they had picked up his glasses.

He had told his parents he didn't want any, that glasses were for sissies, but the optician's verdict had been absolute: nine-year-old Fujimoto was too myopic  
to go without.

Nine-year-old Fujimoto was no more inclined to care about such an opinion than nineteen-year-old Fujimoto was. The glasses had arrived in a simple black  
box – square, ugly things – and he'd plain refused to wear them.

The optician had been frustrated. His mom had been embarrassed; she only fidgeted with her wristwatch like that when she was embarrassed. It gave him  
that horrible, horrible feeling of being a bad son, but he fought it down with the argument that they were just as bad parents. No reminders of ice cream  
could make him budge.

Eventually, his dad had bent his creaky knees and sat down on his haunches, level with his moping son. He'd pointed at the tangle of electric cables on the  
pole outside the window, and asked if Shiro knew what bird it was that sat there. He remembered turning his head, and squinting at the blurry shape… and  
then the glasses had been placed awkwardly on his nose from behind. They hung awkwardly from one ear, and poked into his other in a very uncomfortable  
way.

He still remembered how his mouth had dropped open in chagrin, when he saw that the "bird" was a broken umbrella – but what he remembered even  
clearer was how the world all of a sudden was there. Fuzzy lines turned sharp and organised themselves into fences, trees, buildings, roofs… It's something  
you remember vividly; no matter how many years that pass, you remember the first time you see the same world as everyone else.

* * *

Tip of his tongue clamped between his teeth in concentration, Shiro bent over the table while correcting his spelling and turning right letters that he had  
reversed. He read the dictation through once more, thoroughly, and spotted one or two additional mistakes. Then, he handed the paper back to Samael.

"Think I can pull through university like this?"

The green eyes scanned the writing; frowned at a few remaining mistakes, but ultimately…

"You still spell _quella _as q-e-l." He left the paper to lie flat on the desk. "But if you put in the additional manual work, you can. So, with that issue solved;  
let's head on to the next, shall we?" he said in chipper business tones, and looked very much like a comfortable CEO seating himself for negotiation when  
he returned to his chair.

When a demon adopts a business tone, it means that the business is _his_, and you are merely an employee being informed of your next task. At least that's  
what it meant in Samael's case. Rather than follow suit and sit, Shiro remained standing.

"I'm an avid supporter of sin in all its forms", Samael smiled cordially, "but at the present both you and I need to display a certain degree of virtue to pass  
for acceptable in the Vatican's eyes. There can be no doubt in Rome that you live in celibate and feel no temptation towards the carnal."

"What makes you think I'd give them reason to doubt?" he questioned coolly.

Shiro knew the answer. He knew the answer, and he hated the saccharine smile that curled the corners of Samael's lips.

"Can't keep yer emotions in check when I'm around, Fuji~?" he mimicked, word for word, and added in the whole damn bedroom-eyes-and-seductive-voice  
act on top of it.

"_Don't._ Do that." Damn him and his talent for impersonation, damn his _fucking _ability to manipulate space and make his voice sound like hers; damn his  
_disgusting _habit of spying on people…! "I get your point: and you let _me_ handle that. You're not going near Kasumi." Wrong words. Forbid a demon anything  
and he would go out of his way to do it. "This is between you, me and Tanzi, remember?" he said through clenched teeth. "We're the ones who chose to play  
this game, and you promised nobody else would get involved. Be a man of your word and let me take care of Kasumi."

"Hear the lion roar~" Samael twirled another golden caramel by its wrapping ends and snickered happily. "Very well, then. Make sure Miss Honda understands  
that your relation must be discontinued and the matter is out of the world."

There were many things unsaid in that airy statement. Many clauses and consequences waiting to come into effect in case Shiro _didn't _get the matter out of  
the world.

"_I hope you rot in hell._"

* * *

**A/N:**  
**  
Anaptyxis** – you know when a Japanese person says "brown" and it comes out as "burown"? That's anaptyxis: inserting auxiliary vowels to make it easier  
to pronounce consonant clusters.

**That thing about dyslexia is true. **I don't know if maybe you were already aware of that, but it fascinated me to no end when I first learnt of it. It's true  
in the reversed case, too: Western dyslectics can find themselves "non-dyslectic" when learning, for example, Mandarin or Japanese.

**Dear Dare mo**  
No, it's not that scarf. Yet. It will come. "More on this in Rome…" No, actually, that is _after _Rome. ;)


End file.
